the hiss

Hey Jude
Come on, Joe
Don't make that sad song
Any sadder than it already is
Hey Jack, get back
Get yourself together
Come on, come on
I know you’re thinking of your nervous love
I know exactly what you're thinking of
Hey Cid, no matter what you did
It can work out, work out
No matter how you feel right now
Hey George, do your chores
Don't feel sore
I know it's a lot more than just being bored
There's a heaven and there's a star for you
There's a heaven and there's a star for you
There's a heaven and there's a star for you
--Daniel Johnston

A ringing, like the high hissing pitch from a shower head, is in my ears. As blackberries bring a wave of weakened thumbs, ipods bring the cyborg ill-adaption of tinnitus.

Our addiction is to the simultaneous transcending and dividing of space. A podcast from Britain, a text message from Glendale, take us beyond our immediate surrounding and separate us from those in our presence.

While walking we no longer worry about whether to nod hello to the strangers we pass.

And the bus rider can close off surrounding sorrows.

I sit near the front of the Orange Line bus. My ipod is paused, but earphones remain in. At Van Nuys Blvd riders cram through the front door. A college kid stands to let a very large man with a rattan cane and dark shades sit down. "Thank you," he says.

I close my eyes and let conversations dissolve into engine's hum.

"Stop leaning on me!" shocks me from my stillness.

The man with the cane changes from feeble to ferocious.

In a crowded bus, jostling and leaning is the norm, but the scars inside this lion are deep, and he looks ready to break his cane over someone's head.

"Get off me you faggot!"

The target of his inexplicable outburst weaves through twisting arms and legs toward the back door while others give the wrath its space.

"Cocksuckers... I cant stand 'em... They all need to die..." The rage, like a homophobic sewage line, explodes, soaking us with a fecal stench. When I arrive at North Hollywood station, with bloodshot eyes, I'm gasping for breath.

The hulk of hate limps off and continues his seething, punctuated by cane stabbing cement.