Two Prose Poems
...one quotes Brecht in exile
Panic Attack
In case I needed to travel by train, I dressed, packed a light bag, and placed my keys and wallet in my pocket. Polishing my glasses, I chose a book for the journey: Rimbaud.
I always choose Rimbaud for these journeys.
Waiting in the street for a taxi to the station, I checked my pulse. It was steady, but elevated. Knowing this might be a panic attack, I continued to the station.
Presenting myself at the gate, I was told by the conductor that I did not have a reservation. I opened my wallet. There was no ID inside.
Breathing out fully, a rush of blood tingling my skin, I felt relief. One cannot travel without ID even if one buys a ticket at the last minute or, on those lines where it is permitted, en route. It was not a real panic attack.
I read a poem by Rimbaud in the taxi home, moving the bookmark one page further. When I reach the end of the volume, I will die.
Messenger of Misfortune
Underground I found others of no interest. We were not literally under the ground, that would have made us locatable. But we had each employed a similar strategy for disrecognition: erratic habits, unpredictable income. Perhaps we stood out at sparsely attended performances and exhibitions as especially unconcerned with “potential.” This was the kind of sign only others like us picked up, however.
Amongst ourselves, we ask few questions and answer even less - although I have encountered some who ask nothing but questions, which is effective if exhausting. Silence is the standard, and its awkwardness must be cultivated, continually refreshed.
Life is not comfortable underground. Breakfast is never at the same hour, or accompanied by the same beverage. Public transportation nearly always leads to an unfamiliar station, or at least to an unfamiliar exit. Sleep comes when it does and where it does.
A conviction that life itself is uncomfortable is likely the first step we each took. Underground is just a path, but the only one I know that leads to personal space.