Wednesday, August 13, 2008


Clear scenes across smudged windows

Eyes distorted in reflection

Caution cones on a construction site,

colored glass and concrete walls.

Little girls walking in Mary Janes

past men carrying briefcases.

Starbucks coffee in laughing hands

entering elevators, climbing stairs.

Keys unlocking oversized doors.

Computer screens swelling.

Mannequins dressed in chiffon.

Foaming ice cream cones,

across steel bars.

Cheryl Caruolo

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

Broken glass and

we, only minor characters wailing in the rain, into the wild.

The stranger sitting beside you, like a wet match, is no help to you now.

It’s time. Step out from the shadows of loving, of leaving.

As a child steps out of the long grasses
when the game has ended.

Like the ocean, pounding, smoothes the sharp edges
of broken glass.

Chase Street

in the chaos – and the children
upside down and dizzy
the music continues as before

floating with deception
around and through the voices
and the words continue as before

the grayness envelops
even the laughter
as the sky threatens us once again

and the only comfort
is the warm perfection of milk resting on my tongue

as life argues between the bitter and the sweet
just as it was that time before

Alexia Chamberas
the grey patina takes over
the moment objects in the urban landscape
have no clear definition
no sign of depth from each other
there is one veil of vapors
escaping from the sewers below
people in streets are out of focus
blurred movement
some seem to be figures
descending lower strata
where other undistinguishable breathing corpses
lay in cement tunnels
trains load & unload the grey cargo
grey cadavers fill common graves below
grey patina takes over
the moment

Aldo Tambellini
from “brianscan 90”

there is no escape from the black
it compresses the negation of colors
the dense shield where no light
keeping the sun’s corona
a forever eclipse
the last train & the next train that
the human cargo into deeper tunnels
in cars in carbon & graphite
imprinted in tar graffiti
lost in the even blackness
forever sits in a station bench
before & after
the next train & the next
tunnels to tunnels
at another station
a face deformed
corroded by acid HATE
for a train that never
at that station

Aldo Tambellini
from “brianscan 90”
D Green Line
14 September 2008

No smoking
Sold out laughing
Take your mother
Transit Project
The destination of this train is
Put the phone to her
I just got off now
Reading a book
Stroking her hair
My mother always says
It’s not easy to
Stop requested
There is a passenger hugging his bag
Flower, Worldvision, North
Next Stop: Brookline Hills, Safety, Celeb
It makes your life so much easier
Ring bell for all stops
Enter, exit
Next stop: Beaconsfield
Magenta umbrella, purple dress, shoes, man in suit, Shopaholic,
Talking on the telephone
Lopsided images
Transparent, parents, parenthesis
Caution: Door Swings Open

Zayde Buti

Fenway Station
8 September, 2008

Tattoo leg and two girls—
Freckles everywhere
“…it was actually really cool…”
You have to bring everyone I know
Except for…
I dropped blood
Went in sideways
“I ain’t gon’ stifle myself, bitch!”

Zayde Buti
Experience with trains and buses:

Strangers get the best of you,
The did me that day too,
Turning my face to one side
I never wanted you to see me cry
But you did, and now I’m here
Bus stop, South Station
With a stranger man who
Rubs my back as I cry
Touching what should be you.

Hello commuter,
I used to like the way we
Breathed through correspondence
But that changed the day
That you became my neighbor,
Well, the dysfunctional,
Same city, kind of neighbor,
Now I take the train
But never see you.

I remember that morning,
How it was cold then too,
As we waited at the bus stop
At the same inappropriate hour
Which impatiently taps its feet
To the anticipated arrival,
It was different that time,
I remember how
It just came and left
We stayed to watch
It leave, south bound, and we
Were pleased by failed departure


Stalled in the backseat
Of a sunrise train we were
Protected form the stiff
Air and the angry revving
Of early morning engines
In the sleep state of that hour
We fell asleep, confused
Between cloths we use
Then too often loose to describe
Our too quickly vocalized
“I love you’s”

Nellie Large
LC Nojechowicz

Back on the Subway

I resumed commuting recently. Now I have a love-hate relationship with the subway. My eyes and ears almost burst some nights, amid the thunderous trains, the too-sweetened nut roast smell, and crowds banging up against me.

Working people. Frazzled mothers dragging kids. Teenagers in hooded sweatshirts. Loud girls in pointy shoes. Crazy people mumbling, toting old newspapers in shopping bags. Whether it’s Orange Line homeboys, or Kendall Square yuppies, the intimacy of riding with strangers offers mystery.

I got to the subway late one night, finding only stragglers. A Chinese couple sat entangled on a bench, oblivious. Sitting on his lap, she wore a short pink coat, and her dumpling legs were all over him. They spoke quietly, laughing and kissing. When they got off, I imagined them strolling towards a cafe, an intense romantic knot, separate from the world.

On another night, Downtown Crossing was particularly bleak in the overhead glare, and the young accordionist who so often played there, was gone. He’d always stamp out the rhythm as he played, and in his brown fedora, the slight, solitary figure seemed like he’d stepped straight out of a Milan Kundera novel.

He played a Paul Simon tune one night, and I found myself quietly singing the refrain, “they’ve all come…to look for America…..Cathy, I said, I am lost, but I know you are sleeping….We smoked the last one an hour ago….”

I hadn’t sung that tune in so long. Standing there, across from the huge Toyota billboards, I felt old, but beautiful, if only in my own head.