I still ride TARC (blahzay-blahzay)
by Bernard Clay
I still ride the tarc buses
with their pissy smelling seats
gum stuck to feet
odor of butt and malt liquor
overhead fluorescent light flickers
back bench full of shopping bags
seats tattooed with graffiti tags
redundant ringing of stop bells
old vets spittin tall tales
lames in fly-away collars
dudes peeping girls itching to holla
grease spots on the window that seeped from hair
from bums stretched out asleep who just dont care
little bad-ass kids screams
old lady evil-eye beams
headphones blastin until ears are sore
old transfers and pay stubs littering the floor
disproportionate abundance of the black race
bus drivers clutching cans of mace
when shipping us goods from the hoods to malls
this concrete ship rarely stalls
rushin us to serve on the trip out
our bodies be in-route
economically packed
from the front to the back
and them raising prices all the time
to be middle-passage confined
in the belly of the steel beast
and when us suburban laborers are released
late they try to demonstrate an attitude
thats when I get rude
because on the way back to our shanty township
the buses breakdown and be ill equipped
worn seat vinyl and bald tires,
and drivers who in two days will retire
so I get home at midnight my work-journey hours equaling ten
and the next day
guess what? I gotta do it all again
just the blahzay-blahzay on the tarc everyday
why? its my only way
This article appears in January 28, 2015 (15751824).