subterranean stork daddy a clarified voice rises above the chatter in the blue sky ceiling at the subway stairs top "you don’t love me? how dare you say that…" the man stamps into the cellphone which is a small eternal box. there’ll always be someone who has your number he thinks to himself about her quickly and is enraged. he walks down the stairs to the subway, hoping his eyes and everyone’s eyes don’t adjust and the world remains dimmer, so that his wound is an indeterminable blur with laughter, and boredom and impatience. he stands at the mouth of the subway tunnel forever gaping it is impatient, menacing and inevitable every now and then signs rumble up of its inner life the way she used to exaggerate her stoicism before laughing. the way he would nervously place one hand above her hip a glimmer of light howling down a rail tunnel. every portal is a hesitant favor we take for granted. now he will stand as he is already doing in front of the map of subway routes and think where do all these other lines go to? the train only goes to my house, to her house. just one line down, a detour. fuck. but very little has changed. the beggar playing the guitar near the stairs has not paused, does not know. at the man’s house his furniture will sit like scolded children and there will still be pictures of him and her forever smiling. and he can see no portents in them. you didn’t say the right words he wants to scream at her! because you didn’t say the right words, I didn’t say the right words. how could so little have changed. a slight variation, the 10:00 train to daly city is five minutes late, but it isn’t significant. only one world has been taken away, who knows perhaps as many other stops on some other line, but he was blind to them, because he was going where she was. all of the people rush past him with their reasons only every capability has been taken away, who knows. is what was there before what is there now, more real less real? he’s still holding the cellphone up to his ear and he’s staring, “how dare you say you don’t love me” a softly spoken outrage at being returned to all of this the phone is not dramatically flung but placed quietly into his pocket, a portal sealed and he thinks, a capability re-approached, - “how dare you say you don’t love me” and he means how dare you remind me of the breadth and deafening rumble of existence outside each and every thick-veined color-coded pocket of resistance. 050126 ... stork daddy how dare you, how dare you oh the tunnel vision of intimacy - and then at the last possible moment you're hit and crushed by the familiar now strange that was supposed to take you home. 050127 what's it to you? who go blather from