This is for any one who's ever fallen in love on a bus. Mass Transit How did we get here? Did our parents fly to a foreign tongue while their ears popped for the first time? Did our parents plug the leaks in the boat with torn strips of their clothing? We are here, the children of transit, running through tunnels of fire and hunger, our black hair the most intimate of maps. The bus, the plane, the subway, Mass transportation mirrors my life: stand on the street, wait for my turn under lidless blink of stars, wind burrowing itself deep inside of my clothing. I ask for directions from sleepwalking strangers. All this time, I've waited for the bus, powered by mystery of burning gasoline, for the trolley, whose currents run like chained stars through the long black wires above our heads, I've waited for them to stop and for you to emerge to show that momentum propelled you to destiny. The L. The 6. The BART. The train jerks to a stop and I hope I'm stumbling closer to you. The Metro, the MUNI, the 21A, Overflowing grocery bags and sleeping citizens crammed together so tight that our dreams congeal in the fluorescent air when the older, tired dreams get on the bus, I stand up, give up my seat, sleep standing up, reminisce about a schoolbus as yellow as our skins when a red boy called me chink and I didn't know what it meant but I cried anyway and the black girl sitting next to me said I cried like a little bitch I want to transfer into your arms. The Red line. Blue line. Brown Line. Every vein and nerve is a map to you, always too far, and although I am a loud man the language I want to call out to you is dying inside of me, so I hope there will be no words but just signs, no passing, this is home for you, what is behind my eyes and buried beneath my name when my parent's tunnel collapsed behind them. Let's be lost together, let's be stranded together let the cabs pass us by even as we raise our arms to signal them, and drivers guard their cars like sovereign nations Take the breath that comes from me when I dream of you and lift yourself, fly into my arms like an angel through O'Hare, SFO, LAX, La Guardia, MSP, You are fate and you're riding coach. Fate lands with a jerk. Fate gets patted down. Fate is asked to remove her shoes and hat. Fate is randomly searched. We sit in blue plastic bucket seats trace our names on huge glass windows and imagine vacations to our homelands Sai Gon, Seoul, Beijing, Taipei, Tokyo, Baghdad, where are you from, I am from where you are from our shared eyes picture ID and black hair passports we play the game of airport strangers who tell each other too much as the planes land and leave again we will make a house from torn tickets, buss transfers, receipts, tokens, overbooked flight vouchers, visas, green cards, and we will finally be home The train, the L, the 21A, the planes, to, and from. I know that I am always moving towards you. I know that I may wait in line to get close to you. And even if, when I dream of you, I can't tell whether I'm under the ground or above it, I'll close my eyes and trust the love that pulls me in your direction.

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