January 16, 2004

• On Cold Rails

  
  

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  Today I was carried to work on Cold Rails of steel.

  
  

  Past dragons breath juice factory Lego snapped into the grid, pill boxes sniping four hundred thousand volts of supple heat we couldn't let go of even if we wanted to, even though it scars us badly, even thoughknowing the end is not enough for the grid; a shot of white lightning belt high. The atmosphere is thick with our vaporous trails into the ether, into the pale blue dawn with light so feeble it barely touches us, a fairy kiss on our turned cheek covered in Turtle Fur© and masked, hatted, covered and gloved, no one swings at this one; duck your head.

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

  

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

  But the cars pass we pass them with scant an opening in this chill, a flicker of glimpsed handicapped signs blue wheel chairs winging pulling away that slight and narrow window gaze past a half dreaming dawn into semi warm coffee cup sipped by the conductor's call, "Final Stop! Bahstahn, North Stashahn."

  
  

  Weave under and past the over pass curves in airplane arcs above my head.

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

  Dodging the rows of rails and passing through the way a road is lit for me and the way is prepared and the arena entered. Today we move in enclosed spaces, weep tears of condensed breath and smell the remnants of past excursions in our muffles see them on our brow. Too little of our time is spent knowing this dim place, understanding the simple path between the cars feeling the freight that lies to be moved for all of us. Rust not and want not that is the motto placed signpost green interstate blue; this way to the Callahan Tunnel.

  
  

   

  
  

  And then we gather steam, improve performance, motor ahead jobless recovery in tow. The power and pointlessness of heating sand and Boston Gravel has seen the rise and fall "First and Foremost."

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

  The train knows nothing of this pride of America, cares not where we go when we ride rails straight to the destination we paid for, last stop and last chance waive your flag now before the political announcements begin. The sun shines glory high, if but we knew how to crawl up that conveyor belt and in to her mechanized

  
  

  

  
  

  heart steaming brightly and sweating mightly we work and row the boat toward the distant shore of piecemeal freedom granted with the passing of a Patriot Act when patriots needed no legislation and wanted no truck to haul that freight dumped on us only when we gave our choices to two, yes two, political parties in a land of three hundred and fifty million divided by two will not stand in the cold air and sing Glory to The Republic I can hear it now.

  
  

  And the bridge connects us to the place we are from, solid lift over solid water and thump thump crank creeeeek switch track four to ten track switching destination is a semi-final win with cheerleaders running out to great us as we head in to victory station click click last stop, slow halt of forward pressure ... stop.

  
  

  

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

  Wish bone wish and snap still here driven concrete ridged into the the muck of the Charles. I have to leave now and on the way bright bone white day settled through it a parched opening I swallow I wonder where do we head when we go out across America

  
  

  

  
  

  ... I have to stop drinking coffee on the train, it weirds me out.

  • 8:25 pm
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