Symphony for the Massachusetts Bay Transit Authority

Blue Line (come un sogno)

Wide-awake and laughing-like softly so

the rain won't fear my heartbeats out of time.

My mav'rick dreams of yesterday let go

to form sand castles on a fleece of snow

where angels groom and young girls plot to climb

wide-awake and laughing-like (softly, so

as not to wake the lonesome men).  I know

the Blue Line lands in Wonderland and chimes

my mav'rick dreams of yesterday.  Let go

of notions spilled on hearts unseen—grow

to dance with colored passions and unwind,

wide-awake and laughing-like softly.  So

please do not raise me if I hap sleep low.

Do not determine blame, or worse malign

my mav'rick dreams.  Of yesterday, let go.

Let go!  Be free!  May it trouble you no

more.  For death's the ocean, and my waves rhyme

wide-awake and laughing-like softly so,

my mav'rick dreams of yesterday let go.

Green Line (martellato e quasi recitativo)

1.

Old man facing me

Boston Public Library.

Hugging book 

face buried 

hands clenched,

worried words restless

& attempting coup. 

Dressed in layers

knowing he chills.

(Button-down Oxford, sweater, sport coat.)

Andy Cap hat & glasses

on table do

no good. 

2.

Been to men’s room 

in basement.

Seen man with hair napped back

pretend sink a bath.

Skin black ink 

& eager to overthrow page.

Orange Line (solenne e come una canzone)

1.

I like hip-hop laced with gunshots

And prefer to sleep alone

When evening rears and vaults and sears

Or dissolves into a moan.

I ask for nothing else at times

Than to hear Nina Simone

Bellowing Negro blues down slow

For the way down cats who’ve known.

I beg the night to trip and trot

Through the dream deserted drone;

To propel my father’s angel

Past the drunken sirens’ crone.

My half-drawn tears have all been had,

And leave me quiet, soaked in bad.

2.

Baby don’t you make me sad,

Don’t purse and fall or brew all mad,

Don’t let our love plunge in arrears,

Don’t leave me soaked in bad.

Soaked in bad, soaked in bad,

If I could leave, I would.

Soaked in bad, oh drowned in bad,

I would leave Green Street for good.

Baby don’t you act that way:

Silent, coy, sepulchral, gray.

See right through my fun house mirr’rs

My face all soaked in bad.

Soaked in bad, soaked in bad,

If I could leave, I would.

Soaked in bad, oh drowned in bad,

I would leave this town for good.

Oh, Baby don’t you make me sad

Slipping past my lonesome pad

With bucket tears and half-drawn fears

That purse and fall o’er lipstick smears

As lamplights bawl and moonglow nears

Leaving me soaked in bad.

   Soaked in bad, soaked in bad,

If I could leave, I would.

Soaked in bad, oh drowned in bad,

I would leave this world for good.

Red Line (senza misura)

I fall in love on the train everyday, but never for longer than a few minutes—the doors close too fast, the rumble over the Charles is too loud.  Besides, if I don’t write things down right away, I forget. 

In two years, I’ll be married and wish I wasn’t living in Minneapolis.  My wife will hold a nine-to-five selling shoes, and I’ll work as a shill in a card room southwest of the cities—praying for overtime and extra meal comps.  There will be children, to be sure.  And a dog. 

This is not all conjecture.  I am already married, and Marie is pregnant with twins.  We’re pregnant, she likes to tell people.

I write songs about college girls who read paperbacks and smell like juniper; I’ve never written a song for Marie.  Semisweet love notes, maybe, VCR directions and grocery lists, but no song lyrics.  She reads motherhood magazines and smells like everyday, but that’s not even it.

From the time the train leaves Alewife until I get off near Chinatown, I drink in latte smells and romanticize the backs of stockinged legs.  I think of hotels with sawdust floors and hourly rates.  I hum “Let’s Get it On,” and masturbate under my overcoat, dreaming non-Marie dreams and worrying over missing my handkerchief. 

Nobody notices.

When I get to work, I write confessionals on company letterhead in my awkward, looping script:

Honey, I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just going to blurt it out: I want to leave.  

Baby, I lost four grand on a prop bet with Gary Cline.

Marie, I’ve had sex with thirteen hundred Red Line women and four flesh and bone ones.

Darling, I’m worried if we get a dog, I’ll forget to feed her, and she’ll die.

After I finish, I trim the edges and paste the confessions right in here, intermingled with jagged love songs, poker losses, and other tangible summaries of my days.  I flip through the worn pages and put it back in my breast pocket.  Like a shield.

Or a soldier’s Bible.

Sometimes, I fancy my words strong enough to challenge the Red Line.  One day I’ll wrap myself in holy notebook pages, jump in front, and see if they can save me.