this
is his
story
the need is not an impulse
the fare is not to talk about myself.
what is the motive of a yellow fog
that lies on a cold night in San Francisco?
what is the message, premeditated
on the green walls of the bus depot?
and the neon lights
what do they reveal
of the deposit of time and traffic?
who does the shoeshine man
think he’s calling? —shine ’em up
shine ’em up, shoe shine here—
every plastic fabrication
makes its obdurate obtrusion,
every intent and adjustment
creates an absence
anybody could do without,
like in a stagnant pond one sees
that everything is dry
#ding#
May I have your attention please?
The calestoga, local bus
is now receiving passengers
at gate number, forty-four
what is
not overheard
LA? 15.14
How long does it take to get there?
You taking the valley route?
Yeah, I want the express.
9½ hours. The express leaves at 1 o’clock
at gate number 36.
15.14? Out of 20? That makes 16, 17, 18, 19, and 20.
Thank you.
San Rafael? We don’t go to San Rafael.
You don’t go to San Rafael?
comically
round &
rubber
people
the dice are loaded like the mute lines
of passified passengers, foreigners
and they are not tossed aside.
what’s the advantage of sevens and fives?
what goes on behind the eyes
where are my suitcases,
will I make my connection,
does this bus go to Fortuna?
what goes on behind the walls
does Oakland go on the 8:15,
take the flowers under the gate,
Camp Evers is Scotts Valley?
they assume their seats.
and among the greasy entrails
in the bins of the bus
who consumes the dirt and exhaust
working the baggage
who has the strength to resist,
the irony
of differences
a sense of urgency
wilts like a potted lily
in the desert near Bishop,
an imagination disowned
that sits like three boxes of live fish
waiting to be bused to Livermore.
wonder
means when is the next bus
to Modesto?
fancy if suppressed
in precedence established
by the public lobby—
peace
will
out
what fantasy? silence is prostituted
with a three-radio chorus
and all the alarms and bells
of pinball machines in a corner,
intervalled announcements of departures,
and anxious and anonymous inquiries
of appointments and possessions, directions.
apathy assumes the final veil of concern
and the object talk about the weather.
involvement tries to discover a sense of humor
and aborts itself upon its failure.
no one is responsible.
there can not be enough incompetence
to worry the initiated.
You better hurry; your bus left a minute ago.
there can not be enough distress
not to disregard private and isolated exceptions.
what do you give the passenger
who’s got everything?
What do you mean, my suitcases aren’t here?
85¢ for a ticket to the international heaven
the next coffin leaves
at gate number nine
in 20 minutes
Go to the information booth
at the rear of the platform,
The baggage counter
is through the main glass doors
to your left as you go out on the platform,
Go to gate number eleven
at eleven o’clock,
The terminal manager’s office
is under the women’s room,
Go to the ticket office—
You can’t get on the bus
without a ticket,
repeat
repeat
Go out, half-way down on your right.
it comes out in the fog
this cold gray city block appears
meaning nothing
although who understands it?—
an investment of what surmise
Have a nice trip!
a warehouse of what worries and what effects
accumulates like gum under the seats,
what simple honesty
everything
hidden
with nothing more to hide,
what advantage
lying on the cement
like a drunken man
waiting to be taken in.
Do you want to go to Merced?
Do you know how you will get there?
They will show you no mercy.
what is the destination of penury?
where do all the flowers go?—
Crescent City, Coos Bay, Eugene.
Here, you see, it ain’t all easy.
It ain’t all even understandable.
You are a coward here,
anxious and unaware, or
you are strong.
the whole and abject ridged mass
attempts to move around the clock
in quick and concerted
adherence to schedule,
while rooms of painted brick,
mere object and location,
constitute the resistance.
They lie, disguised quicksands like error
and doubts that slowly sink
the suffering travelers
into a mire of withdrawal,
like the dumb and transients
who live in their shoes
in the depot, waiting,
obey with paranoid gestures
the signs of authority
ticket agent, driver, supervisor,
but no answer is given or
what are we supposed to do
and nobody cares.
not those who wait for the coalescence
of fortune, a ticket or bus to manifest
and show them where they want to go.
the hidden
self-
reliance
but they do not force a conclusion
which would not come with effort,
not with the intercourse
of blackmail or demand,
not with the climax
of deception, which has no climax
or the disguise of the disgust,
and not with the abuse
of privilege
which only familiarity provides.
not that, anything but that.
Either this bus ain’t going anywhere,
or you haven’t got the ticket.
30 June 1973