Another poem that I get asked about a lot-- "A Nameless Imitation of the Morlocks" is the poem that won me an Academy of American Poets Prize in 1998. The judge was reknowned poet Gerald Stern.
A bit more about the poem: basically it's my subway poem. The title comes from H.G. Wells "The Time Machine" -- you might remember the Morlocks (as opposed to the Eloi) as the race of creepy subterraneans from the book. And yes, it is a bit of a call-out to the X-men characters of the same name.
I owe a lot to this poem. It's the reason I can say that I am an "award-winning poet" and it's something that humbles me to this day. I strive to create...and in creation, I strive to be a better person.
I love being a New Yorker. (When this poem was written, we still had tokens, cigarettes were way cheaper, oh..and "discrete" is not a typo. There's a reason I spelled it that way. Even though I hate math, I used the spelling in another poem too. Yes, so clever I used it twice. More about that poem some other time...)
A Nameless Imitation of the Morlocks
I stand between hissing doors and the bona fide proof
that hydraulic pressure is slowly taking over the world.
Token affection, the rumble that numbs my feet, the loss
of identity–our daily penance for living in this city.
Eye contact is an invitation for the lecherous. Shift
my weight from foot to mouth and hold on
with head down, immersed in the wonder
of shoelaces, the miracle of sticky cola floors.
Shun the tragedy of brutal strangers
because you are exactly the same–occupied
by discrete music, origami news folded brusquely.
Too busy to scour for affection between
the poles and straps. Remind yourself
that underneath the perspiration and the rough
years; we are all colliding.
I force the distance closer with sleepy perseverance.
Graffiti ghosts of adolescence speak
in tongues, telling me stories of rats in suits
that never, ever read paperbacks. Neglected
by conversation and the cacophony of loose change,
I am learning to hide behind myself.
And then there is the tension of leaving, the sighs
of platforms, the reclaiming of the self. Coming
up for air–we urban creatures of transport.
So this is our dirty little secret:
We all prefer to speed through the darkness
than squint in the light like fleshy moles. Anonymity
is an addiction that we feed with motion. Point to point,
no one knows where I am going
or where I am pristine.
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