like a tapioca glob
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a train is a kind of anaconda
it is a huge serpent and an even larger sperm
it brings life to an egg that is its terminus
a sleeked glob of tapioca pudding (we are the oka)
a good train is loud elfin laughing
a witchy smithy clanky chanting as if carlos santana's
had there ever been invented an axe called
railroad guitar...
a trip and a half in a train is trance
the romance of train trips...
even the paltry new jersey transit bit
wisks the landscapes and the towns the pines
into well-beaten egg whites
and the asian girls with backpacks on get on
going to washington square? brooklyn?
entrain the fantasy of shagging the shaggy-haired sleepy
blonde entrained complete with holey jean knees with
pristinely white knees. surely not white plains? katona?
christopher street?
my trains were entirely the too long and too short of it.
uncomforable miserble i have at times become
yet i disdain nothing. i walk away in need of more trains.
i often think of trains -- as does robyn.
in schenectady in albany when slinking slowly past platform
deserted in cleveland lampooned by the curvilinear
skyline of latenight rochester
the name of the rain -- lake shore limited --
has rivuleted -- plink -- inside. beneath my train window
it micro-lies. am flooded. microcosmically. a lake
roared like a river. like a train.
like a tapioca glob.
