The knot of destinations
untangled on the station wall
suggest the limitations
of the trains. Their tracks.
parallel rails finding
the same distance
the same direction,
were lain as long lines
in a time of aspiration
by men defending hope
and wanderlust.
The rail yard is a brain,
and ganglia are waiting to move
populations and product.
Nerves know their urgency but
sometimes
ignore it.
In the distant metropolis
where I would like to live,
the traffic is congested. Drivers
hoarse from their frustration,
say nothing now and now cower
behind the wheel, behind the car
that is behind the car
that is behind the car
that is behind the car
that is stalled on this December morning
when no one will be
going home
again.
But there are planes
and there are aeroports.
And there is the idea
of flight. I might begin
this journey here
and through the clear blue sky--
or ink black night
or through a cloud that sweats
out rain and thunder--
I will, god willing, arrive
at the exact coordinates
at the exact time
my nerves require.
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
Showing posts with label trains. Show all posts
Showing posts with label trains. Show all posts
04 May 2011
28 February 2011
On Time
The train that I have been racing has been obscured in smoke, blurred by speed. It forever going into tunnels..............................................emerging faster, shinier, polished chromium reflecting the world, reflecting the sun, bouncing it back into my eyes. By foot, on horse, in a 70s Cadillac the same color of the sky, I have challenged this agile serpent, this zipper quickly closing up the land. Like barbed wire, the humming rails communicate the danger. I hear some explanation whispered in the cold shell of my ear. One's memory of the ocean could start to ache here. A train can't come fast enough/a train can't go quick enough to alleviate the melancholy knowledge that one feels at the station...........waiting.
But in those days, I tried
to outrun time
to the crossing, my sneakers
kicking, gravel
flying from the Appaloosa's hooves
only to shock
a crack into the windshield
of the Caddie.
My watch,
face broken,
now always reads the same
time.
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