Morning Commute: Flushing Avenue

Monday (Spencer Avenue)
His toddler bangs out notes on the child cage. A symphony of flailing fists accompanied by Hebrew reprimands. The anti-theft cages protect each window of each identical apartment building. Also their personal in-house nanny. Jon and Kate Plus Eight on every block, in every building, every home. Three more join in the music lesson playing makeshift instruments. Clack, ring, reverberation. Shouts and screams. Children ride bicycles on the sidewalk but gawk at mine. Enjoy it while you can. After you outgrow your 24" wheels, they will not buy you another set. Toys are not transportation.

Tuesday (Kent Avenue)
Vibrations. DOT's allocation collapsed with Bear Sterns and you've been waiting for the pavement roller for two years. The sound of its exhaust pipe will spout rejoice into your bedroom window one morning. Until then, what's another day? Your headset quivers, groans at the abuse. A uniformed man is the kuma hula and the cars follow his lead. Out of sync, you leap through oncoming traffic, he ponders the impact on his life if your timing had been just a half a second off. Unemployment is only funemployment for trust fund hipsters and recent college graduates.

Wednesday (Ryerson Street)
Forget the flu, I'm suffering from "The Fear." The recipe: a pinch of sleep, a cup of liquor, and a dash of anxiety. Let sit until morning. The pavement stumbles beneath me and my front wheel pitches from side to side. Your favorite bartender bought all the rounds as well as my cab ride home. Sweet syrup of whiskey and ginger ale poured past bar time. Speech travels, choosing its own path uncontrollable, unpredictable. Liquid courage. You danced on the bar and became one of those girls. Later, you fucked the bartender behind the counter. Even later, you deny it. My roommate woke up this morning face down on his floor surrounded by White Castle containers. At least I made it to my bed. Double yellow line provides a straight path. Follow.

Thursday (N Elliott Place)
"We used to launch ships, now we launch businesses." Rumor: The borough president promised a developer. The juxtaposition of industrial relics and over priced water views would have been a bourgeois dream. Fact: Decrepit row houses leak glass and asbestos just the same. Their ghosts fade into the jungled greenery as the vines inch closer to the sun. Admirals abandoned long ago. Bricks slide off the barrier wall forming sidewalk jetties. Climb over. Don't get caught, the skeletons beckon. Gliding, pedaling, spinning, she wishes for the details. Murderous filigrees suspended from caved in ceilings--she saw it in a photo once.

Friday (Gold Street)
Shit. I missed my bridge exit. Flushing turns into Nassau and Navy plays hide and seek.

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