How can I explain how absolutely heartbreaking and beautiful the last metro car of the night really is?

In the burrow. Im büro.

Kafka sings them into a single metallic tune.

In German, but evident even in a shoddy translation.

In the burrow, Kafka crouches like a field mouse,

Furtive eyes a-glow,

Watching a little,

But mostly feeling the vibrations,

The reverberations of a thousand overlapping, shuffling gaits:

The heartbeat of the underground.

Kafka clings to the walls, and licks a heart clean through the grime.

He can't see it, but the whole frequency of the hovel/tunnel changes,

He feels it in his toes:

Paws a-tremoring, flippers a-dragging, heads a-lolling.

All under neon mosaics made by eight year olds in an inner city school.

The floor lurches and bodies slump. 

Kafka presses his face to the metro walls--

He finds them unexpectedly supple and buries his sunken cheeks even deeper into the soft.

Vagrants gawk and sway (on gentle ripples of intoxication)

But: hark! Kafka feels the steel INTRUDER hurtling

From rattling into sound.

The floor lurches and bodies slump.

Appendages bear adipose deposits across the threshold.

Into: Flash!

Kafka cries, "A reference point!".

But all the shuffling toes were long born away.

Gone and deaf to boot. 

First Verse, Worse as the Hearst

What the ef are you supposed to do with a blog you feel compelled to write, but want no one to read? And by you, I mean I. And by no one, I mean a few people-- mostly strangers or my artsy facebook friends who might get a kick out of the weird things I get up to. How can I explain this phenomenon...When you live a double-ish life, the occluded half sometimes gets lonely and wants to surface, to nestle up to the sun from which all things derive their life-blood. Except blind cave newts. Those things worship only Satan. #El diablow

Recently I came home to roost in Los Angeles, which may very well be the best damn nest on the Americas. Here in LA everyone walks around with crud and gold sparkles in their tear ducts. When I ask the barista what she does, she tells me she's a lion tamer. When I ask the bus boy what he's doing on his break, he tells me he's memorizing lines for a play he's writing/directing/starring in. When I ask the movie director what he does on his off days, he tells me he roofies 16-year-old girls. It's really great. I love it here.

So I'm not so much unlike my friendly neighbors, Barista, Bus Boy, and Lecher: I have two jobs just like everybody else. I get paid for one of them just like everybody else. The only difference is that I work two crooked jobs, instead of one, like most of the other townies. I.e., today I worked on my web series that I'm trying to actualize and tomorrow I will work in a modern-day dungeon, devising torturous scenarios for overpaid, overaged professionals. That's right mami, I'm a real bad bitch. I'm the one who whips your boss while he's wearing pink, satin panties after a long day at the office. You know, that day where he insinuated he thought you looked fat in your pencil skirt.  

Ahem. Anyway, happy Labor Day!