It Takes A Vintage Spirit

It Takes a Vintage Spirit to Get Across the City

First leg across town.

The D Train, or, Subte D.

The smell of mildew and overworked business men in sweat stained suits hits my face in the semi-crowded subway. Several faces float about over tired city bodies and wait for their stop to come into view:

Aguero Stop

Bulnes Stop

Scalabrini Ortiz Stop

Plaza Italia Stop


Here, I am not seen as a monster so much…

Maybe because no one cares to make contact underground.

Perhaps it’s too hot to care.

Or maybe everyone is sleeping with their eyes open.



The second.

Bus number 118, or, Colectivo 118.


I spy,

Buildings smashed together.

Beautiful slabs of unnatural concrete

That crosses your eyes and turns the fellow bus-goers blue in the face.

Graffiti that seeps into chunks of stoic marble and painted cement,

And textured garbage.

They give us a schoolboyish lesson every few blocks, until our stop comes.

We sit with ourselves and interpret the world through spit smeared window glass on the 118.

I spy,

Monkey Faces

La Presidente Cristina is a Monster


Moguls of Yesteryear

RIP Dates of Honor

Flying Mermaid Men with Diamonds for Eyes

Cats the Size of Penthouse Apartments

Tags Over Murals and Murals Over Tags


Tattooed on buildings.


And then I arrive, a touch wiser than before.

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