The Long Island Rail Road from Bayside to Penn departs for downtown once an hour, and then
it whisks you away to the heart of Manhattan in long metal chains of commuter train cabins.
The fare's just five dollars, a bargain for distance, and friendly staff wait at the desk for assistance,
but if you don't use the pass you're out of luck, the fee to refund it's a whopping ten bucks.
grand Central has an artery that Brings you to the top, five Rows of escalation ringed in Glassy green backdrop.
it Takes you from long island trains to Madison concourse and Messes with your weary brain's perSpective data source.
inSide the transit system there's no Angled view that's greater than Looking up these moving stairs, its Longest escalator.
Place a pack of pigeon pokers like a porcupine-- strips of spikes to stop the spread of shit across the sign. People look up at the arrows free from defecation, no birds dropping bombs on the directions to Penn Station. Else they'll go the other way as trains roll East from dock and trek across Long Island three more hours to Montauk.
The signs say no standing on poles down the street. But standing means sitting in the driver's seat. The rule's against cars occupying the road, not humans on legs in a statuesque mode. It tells of the car's, not the driver's position. And stopping your wheels needs D.O.T.'s permission.
In the museum surrounded by glass, eight solid pillars for plugging your ass. (hah) Set upon boxes, their polished grain surfaces softly betray vaguely inhumane purposes. Gentle sloped curves with their bases cut flush, spiked tips observed to be shaped like a brush. Grind them down, maybe, then wear them with pride, but as they are, baby, they'll stab you inside.
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