Terminal Velocity

The blur through a window

from a moving train-

Escape is jumping

Off-another adventure

The temptation to forget

Your given name-

Every thing is new

Once

Or more, 

how many places and things

to see

versions of yourself

Landing 

Through the pane.

Painting by Eva Stort, Deutsch: Blick aus dem Fenster (Schöneberg). Signiert. Datiert 1890' in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Nightrail

The rules are:

→Below 45 miles per hour, at all designated crossings, 15 seconds before, 

but no more than 20 seconds (before).

→O for short – for Long

The standard pattern remains two long, one short and one long

__   __  O  _____

→Most importantly*do not mistake: O __ for __O

One means inspecting the breaks due to malfunction, 

                                                           the other signals approaching a station.

→The restriction is now under a lawn mower, 

horns must be kept lower than 106 dB,

*Pain has been recorded at 125 dB*

The train relentless           last night                     when then rooms dark-in

                             the horn and heavy steel wheels push                         on past

Silent , one-eared heads

-interrupting-           -the thought-              ---process—yes---where were –

Before, it just came again...come again

            Two tracks too much

Amtrak                                                             a freight of     BNSF Railway

Park and Ride, park in the driveway, sit in traffic on the freeway-

                          Toss and Spin, Smolder. Seriously?

People are lined with pennies to pinch under cog and sun, coal for going places.
In the midnight, there must be quarters.

It is called interest. It builds, accrues, and you rarely notice it, until you 

start stealing thoughts on rails

                                          laid down on the line 

                                                                            with the precision of an air horn

rolling over
                   corrugated sheets under tin-eared scalps.

Painting by Paul Signac [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

                                                                                        

Passes thru

The train rolling through town

sends in its signal 

                   with the intermittent whistle which warns

of something more than arrival, delivery or destination,
crimson, or even hot steal.

It smelt of cinnamon and sueded leather,

Bark and skin, the warm coat.

Two young men, 
                         friends since childhood, 
Skype and catch-up on nothing new.

They live close to each other, 
                         only one hears the train first.

The little girl that left the boy 
                         in the woods to get lost herself
was kind enough

to think of bread for later so she could come back

to him, but he was hungry and took care
                         of himself.

She cries about choices to another boy.

She was the wolf that howls at the passing train, sirens song,

a puppy in a dogs coat.

Tracks made for trains are best for drawing lines, 
                        demonstrating the forging of space

between then and now,

                                    here and there

one nose

smells first

and hides in his skin.

The other clearly hears
the passing scream left behind
on warm steal lines
                        without a second glance

he knew there will be another
                         soon enough to catch up.
He takes off his coat.  
No longer in a hurry 
he thinks in all directions,
and decides to walk
without destination.




Photo credit by Carol M. Highsmith [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Hand me downs (II)

The local train blares by

to cause alarm

although familiar, futility gains strength with steam.

With this new engineer at the helm from the rear

he calls *Attention* to his pressures and passages

as though he

the town crier knew the time

anymore.

This whine is the bell vibrating raw gravity-

                           hard to see

coming straight, near, far, coming, going...

All the rest is color coded for us,

              lights and trigger switches

are on the outside, green and red, black and blue

Stop and Go for Simons followers.

The straight path, as the crow flies,

is soft and well worn, even in the sky

                     drawing diameters

in his radii, he is right on a smooth track.

To make it back home for dinner, meatloaf.

To rely on regular things such as

weak forces, sympathy and cacophonies.

Painting by Frits Thaulow, The train is arriving (1881) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Minute drops

The first train blares its horn
ripping thru the quiet town
at five:eighteen
in lieu of the alarm clock
that ran slow-
it goes to show...

Kicking up dust and sand,
it may take some time
for the eyes to adjust
to light rays
lasering the pupil
shrinks as day
cracks the ceiling
wide open.

It smells distinctly like rain
that none saw coming
since there were no puddles
to prove it.

Tho the tracks
were both still
warm to the touch,
and the mist counts
as precipitation.

It adds up over time,
and passes the miles.
Blurring the light infinitesimal
strewn across space
in broad strokes.
Time keeps losing its place
on the train of thought,
while the whistle blows
such primitive perceptions
as these right
outside the window.

Crystal beads streak
backwards behind the ears
as memories
dew
condense and transport us
while wide awake
but a little late.


Painting by J. M. W. Turner, pre 1844 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Objects of Extinction

Here is a place for safe keeping of wares
of which no one cares
about
or for
anymore

You see, objects must possess
utility
not the other way around
I thing...

Superfluous, miscellaneous and etceteras,
come small and tall, starting with the most
noticeable of all
It loiters and litters
on street corners,
posing as a service,
always empty: full of germs
a fishbowl sometimes
where will Superman change?

On such urban safari
look with caution for painted ladies,
who shoot straight from the rosehip
Mark's men, and the Law, a Band
of bureaucratic brothers
and Brothels bumping,
candles burning the midnight
body oil, spraying caution to the wind

the freight car goes by interrupting
notching our mechanical life on rails
the weight we take, mobile homes
and gypsies on tour

The cash we don't carry, the phones we don't answer,
the answering machine will get it
page me if it's important, 911
I'm looking for a music video
on TV, not the radio, with a dial
Zero for the operator, Information?
What now?

Caught on tape,
Scotch?
velcro, pump-ups
knee-highs and high rises
choked ankles with pegged pants
rags brand new, faux fur, and real feathers
the cats meow, the hum of things unseen

in our wireless world
always on
radio waves attacking the video star
we hear nothing
too busy wherever we are
on GPS
tagged
checking in
and signing out.

ECho, Echo, echo, cho, o
Are we in here too?

Image By Conrad Poirier [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.