Necessity and its partner, stringent limitation, have gotten a big reputation as the collective mother of invention. Where limitations do not exist, nutters like the Dogme filmmakers impose them. And where there are already limitations aplenty, as in the empty-pocketed off-off-Broadway scene, a set of even more seriously damaged artists seek out more. All in the name of a good time, of course.

“The A-train plays”(please insert your own joke about MTA limitations here) have, in their three-year history, reintroduced the idea of a productive commute. Once a year, a group of playwrights get on the train at 207th Street, and, by the time they make it to Far Rockaway, each clutches a short, subway-oriented play. After a return trip with their assigned directors (that only takes them to Columbus Circle), the teams meet with actors. A day later, the A-Train plays hit the boards.

Tonight at the Peter Jay Sharp Theater, their second “best-of” program kicks off the week. If their first program is anything to go by, expect a bumpy ride. After producing 96 mini-plays and musicals, the A-Trainers have a large catalog they can plunder.

Most of the pieces mostly prove there’s not much new under the ground. Subway conversations start in stopped trains, or homeless musicians pester passengers who happen to be buskers themselves. Instead, the works clearly pride themselves on flights of fancy; Jesus appears to a commuter in “Howard Hopped the A-Train” by Anthony P. Pennino and Shawn Nacol; Simone Wells and Lanny Meyers wrote a surfing musical.

But the nature of their insane process means most of the pieces don’t transcend a central gimmick. The only piece performed in both, Michael Pemberton’s song “On the A Train,” makes a welcome, raspy accompaniment to the insistently colorful zaniness. In fact, watching 10 consecutive shows this forced might give you a headache. But taken as a treasure hunt, looking for the gleams of value in all the plastic, the “A-train plays” actually come up with a few handfuls of real gold.

Wisely, the group begins and ends with their strongest contenders. Opener David Riedy’s “City of Freaks” uses the most obvious set-up, but does some of the best work with it. A hapless Minnesotan (an adorable Donovan Patton) helps a tense car unwind with peppy lyrics like “I’m from east of North Dakota! We say ‘pop’ instead of ‘soda’!” Lyricist/composers Marcy Haisler and Zina Goldrich, director Edie Cowan, and choreographer Christopher Windom treat their 10 minutes like a Broadway show, getting surprising mileage out of their conceit.

It was then a long wait through another piece of Mr. Riedy’s, a flat “runaway bride” sketch by Craig Pospisil, and the aforementioned visit from Jesus before the second half of the night picks up. Mr. Pospisil’s second offering, “Free,” gives Scott Wood a marvelous, silent opportunity for exultation. Mr. Wood’s straphanger, suffering from a panic attack in an empty car, strips off his clothes in a weird, exuberant dance. He and Lisa Barnes, a buttoned-up rider who unbuttons with him, give understated yet radiant performances, steered expertly by director Mark Lonergan.

But metaphysical radiance had to keep for the final musical: Erica Silberman’s “The Light in Me.” With Cornell Womack’s songs, Ms. Silberman’s wackiness actually accelerates to an excitingly surreal point. Ms. Silberman’s subway riders (Tom Paitson Kelly, a rich-voiced Natalie Douglas, and Lawrence Feeney) flee the new “Irish Yoga,” a painful exercise that blends Guinness and downward-facing-dogs. To explain how Andrew Donovan’s snarling instructor winds up waving the orange-and-green over his students’ heads would rob him of his glamour. But glamour he has.

Mr. Donovan is also responsible for the attractive set, a kind of collage of our favorite A-Train stops. It comfortably houses the excellent band, led by Alec Berlin, which keeps the show rockin’ even during its rougher stretches. If just the sight of a West Fourth sign can make your heart thrill, then make sure to visit the A-train (re)Plays. But if you think you might get impatient with your fellow travelers, wait for the feature-length versions. If these people can work on the train, just imagine what they could do with a desk.

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Speaking of performance and methods of transportation, a strange and gorgeous production has just docked at the Chelsea Piers. “The Blind,” Maeterlinck’s terrifying tone-poem about man’s abandonment by God, has a rare outing in the belly of “The Frying Pan,” an old lightship berthed by Basketball City. Deep in the rusted (once sunken) bowels of the boat, a small audience bundles up against the spiritual chill.

Director Kristjan Thorgeirsson and his adaptor/translator Bathsheba Doran have stripped the play down to its essentials – what were once 12 asylum residents are now a trio, the dialogue barely spans an hour. But what they leave behind is all that’s necessary. Three sightless inmates sit in the grass and wait for their caretaker/priest to return. We, unlike the actors, can see his body, dangling from a noose. As the dark enfolds them and invisible phantoms rustle nearby, they discuss their helplessness and try to sense some way home.

After the show, having explored sensory deprivation and loneliness, the Vortex Theater serves you a steaming vegetarian meal. But the gesture toward community is hardly necessary. With so much of theater splashing in the shallows, a play this profound is gesture enough.

‘The A-Train Plays’ until March 13 (416 W. 42nd Street, between Ninth and Tenth Avenues, 212-279-4200).

‘The Blind’ until April 3 ( Pier 63, Chelsea Piers Complex, 212-352-3101).