Cinci Bus Ride

In the summer of 2000 Cincinnati, a city that Mark Twain recommended as the perfect residence for the judgement day since changes always occur in Cinci five years later than elsewhere in the world, mustered unusual initiative.  There was a brand new stadium on the Riverfront, a millenium bell across the Ohio. Downtown were fiberglass pigs displayed as artwork and both Interstates were completely torn up. Now I ask you Mr Twain, what could be more turn of the century than that? Cincinnati Bus Ride Once he was unable to talk up by the reservoir, anchored rubber to a tree. Tire in tow he dangled the hum of the road the time of release being between the walk up and letting go to the place blue with wildflowers, water gushing the intake valve. It murmurs in the back of the mind when halfway to the page the pen in mid sentence a stranger asks if you know the time. You see he’s overweight too young for a cane tattoed with one eye missing talking on to noone in particular to you, for example anyone at all who might listen which in the city is considered somewhat unusual. Here where no one waits for that signal or stops. Like this morning it smelled of sacrilege the cellphone dangled, the pedal pressed hard, and you, unable to talk past the tinted windows the column of black limosines at the gates of Grant Cementary their winged hoods headless like victories, like slow submarines surfacing in another time zone   like your mother decided on going out there with you and the general public for this grand opening free of charge on a bus for just a quarter fare. He sits opposite, raising cane a monocled revelation tattoed, talking about sin, it's evidently for your benefit how you were once that 13th caller at 10 cents a minute. You cross the Big Mac Bridge by the big bolts binding Mount Adams and ride the cloverleaf over Sawyer Park the jaunting sway all the way down to Riverfront, its serpentine wall two dancing pigs and Noah's ark. He talks on; you nod and try not to listen or lower your eyes when between stops, the driver stands commands from a tablet, passes a card where you place an x for your position passed from his trembling hands. You have perhaps witnessed a crime known only to those outside like the 400 million $’s Paul Brown took from Hamilton County in exchange for a stadium or was the joke when jolted from the dark came thud and holler which was all. You were by command Thou shalt not leave the bus unable to see one fallen star go high o'er the steep slabs of broken concrete like a dove on rails or a common swallow   reflection made holographic in the Ohio. He sees his time at hand and waits a culprit in silence while tape unrolls to the flash of cameras you see his one eye lowered cane held between the knees as if his being there was solely incriminating evidence and not just purely circumstancial. Justice now served from past demeanors for every light called yellow, driving without registration in the glove scape-goated for no other reason than he lunches like you on brochwurst and sauerkraut or 3 way in a styrofoam tray above the excavated zygospira, the schizotreta from the line dividing the Ordovician and Interstate 71 called the Cincinnatian where workers await the standard rail to be deemed at umpteen an hour unworthy of the concave floor. In silence the bus moves on up the ramp by P & G’s twin towers past the Newport Aquarium. We come again to the stop by the Millenium Bell. Passengers clap and cheer; prilimanaries having shown the driver without fault. Relieved and free of fear he pulls the chord which rings the bell and all tattooed under artificial lights he has risen like a star, taking a bow which startles no one in particular not even you, who acknowledge his exit the one eye missing, cane in tow over the edge of that last aisle through the valley of darkness into the jaws of splintered pavement for which there will be filed a report and the driver’s drug test; all for the sight of pigs pigmented golden with wings or a fiberglass pinkachu hued or detour orange with black bengal stripes or a Saks fifth avenue blue or dapple with muddy legs rutted by clumsy finger swipes. And your mother, kept silent until then, said: "What a nuisance his walking into the bus that way!" Entire days are spent, forests of foresight pursuing another pace of life not road construction on Pete Rose Way but an adventure worth repeating; the bus like a ride at Coney Island the ferris that can feel it turn comforting comets vomiting light and squeals of spinning cartwheels from Elwood’s harmonica.Thanks for reading This was actually the first poem I ever posted. I have reworked it a couple of times, gotten disgusted with it, removed it and reposted it.  I want to thank the first people who helped me with comments. sweetbrother, The son of the sun and Michael Dennis Rviers; I'm sorry your comments are gone now but they were very helpful to me. Written February 4th, 2002 © on Feb 03 2002 11:56 PM PST   0 • 12