Internal Alarm.

Irregular Regulars


New York, New York…Wake up, wake up! Chockfull of Nuts + vanilla soy milk. Shaking off bad vibes from bad dreams like water from my hair, upside down, feeling my head expanding. The Mind Elevate. Last.fm. Raspberry Emergen-C. NY 1 is on mute like a friendly robot. The Slippery Stairs and the Salt on the Street. As I near the subway the air is filled with sirens. Fire engines and unmarked police cars with tinted windows shoot down the street. Has Something Happened? Are the Trains running? Down below there are cops everywhere…blockading the entrance to the 6 Local. They don’t look particularly concerned. A few people get pulled aside to have their bags searched, but I’m able to turn towards the Express without breaking step. I take the stairs down. A Level Deeper.

There's a gray, soggy fashion mag lying open on the puddle soaked platform. The article is entitled "Braided Blunders" and has pix of famous actresses sporting huge stalks of braided tresses across their heads. As I look up I see a large blonde woman with a similarly ugly braid peering down to get a closer look at the magazine. I’m so simultaneously bemused and embarrassed that I have to turn away before she can read the headline.

When The Train pulls up and the doors open I let myself be pushed into the car by the crowd all around me. As if in a trance I sit down beside a dark skinned woman wearing glasses and a trench coat and reading a small book that’s open upon her lap. As I situate myself I look down and see that it’s the New Testament. The Gospel of Matthew. It's the part about how we will know it's the End Of Times because there will be many who say they are the Messiah, only they won’t be, and there will also be famines and war and rumors of war and natural disasters…within the list of these my eyes focus on the word “flood”.

The train lurches forward and I look up to see a black canvas bag across the aisle covered with silk-screen prints of bright red cartoon lips. Some are smiling, some are pouting…but all have a strange righteousness to their intensity, as though they’re regarding me with condescension, or even worse, pity.

As if they're secretly betting that i'll never figure out the things I'm supposed to figure out until it's too late.





superdeluxe.

raymi smokes weed again.