Subway Poems & Chaos

I was reading about Kinesics (the study of body movement) this morning in response to the black eye I narrowly missed when a woman tried to take out my eye with her computer bag.

This is not the first time I've nearly or been slightly injured by random carried belongings of women who ride the subway. I was slammed in the head once with a purse - although I shared quite a laugh with the guy sitting across from me in that instance. But what is it with people being so completely ignorant of body space? I know exactly where my fingers are and the exact dimensions of my bags and toes. This morning was sort of hell. I was sat on - sat on! - by two different people (on the N and the 2). I'm sorry, but not knowing the dimensions of your ass is inexcusable.

Thankfully my irreverence came to the rescue and created this mantra in my head:

your body speaks a grammar i brush off your skin with my fingers
collecting sighs and syllables as if i spoke your language

but words bodies are only glamours

yours, specifically, are full and empty

and i am empty, too

This might actually be the opening salvo of a poem. Apparently, even when I'm happy, I can't foresee happy endings. Probably because that part of me was sat on this morning.