This is an excerpt from a series of poems I was working on around 1975, Rapid Transit Poems, drawn from my observations and experiences commuting on BART to and from work at the Oakland Tribune. I envisioned a chapbook but never finished the project, a frequent occurrence in my literary strivings. It's a bit of a flashback to my younger days as a would-be Beat poet transitioning to the Hippie (or as the Mike in the poem loved to joke, "Hip Pie") mindset. There was a lot of stoning and droning in those dear days. It wasn't legal, so was partnered with a certain amount of accompanying paranoia, depending on how potent the pot was. Mike and I would repair to his apartment at the Alician on Alice Street on occasion after work and imbibe in (GASP!) Reefer Madness! This excerpt is about one of those afternoons, I hope you enjoy it.
From Rapid Transit: Poems to a World Transported
Stagger out of Mike’s apartment
stoned and droned again
down the old marble stairs
of the Alicia apartments
permeated with old-lady scents
and mentholated pain relievers
Did Mike ridicule me as I left?
Laughing because I said thanks?
~POT PARANOIA~
Too much to consider
Here’s the street:
walking past the Hindu fakir
with his laundry under one arm
and Vedic sutras tattooed on his brow.
and on to 14th Street toward BART
watching wary city faces floating past
wondering why I exist at all
feeling guilty for no good reason
just as I was taught as a child
I am a lost, a worthless sinner
heading down the stairs into the
the bowels of Hell, the BART station
and lo and behold running into
John the Printer from the Tribune
(UGH! Last thing I want now
is an encounter with a fellow wage slave)
and we discuss as though we’re sane
the wonders/horrors of automation
and John gets on his Richmond-bound train
and I wait for the Concord train
and then it’s here, I’m aboard
still feeling nagging PARANOIA
remembering how I freaked out
on the way home from Mike’s last time
fantasizing that the Filipino girl and her child
were Vietnamese refugees, homeless,
deprived, abandoned by their
Yankee GI lover/father
until I noticed a middle-aged tourist couple
staring at me strangely and I realized
I was weeping maudlinly
tears streaming down my face on BART
and now this trip today
two young men sit facing where I stand
discussing my state of mind
~TERROR~
but no, their deliberations
I realize
are not about me
and even if they are, so what?
Across from them a young woman sits huddled
over a textbook
working equations of her life …
two stops later a seat is vacated
next to a woman just past
her external prime. I take
the seat, ignore her
though she’s intrigued by the flutecase
in my lap, my attention caught
instead by two young mothers, one with a baby,
the other with a boy of about 10.
The baby’s suckling on a bottle,
one foot wagging just as my own son’s did
when he was nursing.
These two mothers are happy
knowing everyone’s enjoying
one of life’s happier intervals, a contact high
from them and their kids. They’re not commuters,
not feeling weary and down after
another’s day’s drudgework
like most of the rest of us
on this rush-hour train. We all
smile and I may weep again,
this time for joy at these happy moms,
their sons, I love them
I love everyone on this train,
I love all, but there’s no way
for me to announce it, I’m too shy,
too high, too paranoid.
It suddenly occurs to me to wonder why
I told workmates today that yes, I saw
a UFO at age 18 at Manhattan Beach CA
(as if I’m not already considered weird)
but who gives a shit, I did see something.
the beings if any aboard that cigar-shaped
saucer with shining light portholes
didn’t stick around or try to abduct me
into outer space for diabolical experiments,
they just whizzed off into the fog
in the blink of an eye
before I could even call Aunt Dorie
to come see.
Just before we get to Concord (at more earthly speed)
a guy asks me about the flute case (the
woman’s gone, I didn’t notice her exit the train,
didn’t talk with her … something sad
about her face and lonely, too).
This guy tells me he sings in a church choir
understands the joy of making music
and how it soothes
the savage soul.
Then we reach my stop, I get off the train
And drive
"Aaahhh, at last!"
home.
Copyright Bob Loomis
10-23-1975
