Metrolined
Feebled old blues dig—
and we all hear the
clickety-clack of some
offland time. Hell, it’s too long,
the whole rolling
and up and down, it’s all fast.
And yet,
here in Aberdeen,
the churches are all the same,
& so are the women and men—
lowly, I,
stand—WAIT—sit on
an NYC bound train,
no better or worse because
of the reckless abandon
in the realms of last night.
Fled now,
or fleeing at least
(as we speak, further away)
from the world at last.
Not the last stop,
but the attainable
is now closer than I thought—
Buddha is becoming
ENLIGHTENED!
And the sing-songs
of all enlightened thought can’t help me—
I saw him:
shot! and then fell
dead! there in front of my own eyes.
Marathon up—
too crazy to follow
that tango downtown:
head up then,
I’ve followed the path
this far—
just as well should finish it now.
But if I’d thought of it all,
done again,
that guy (dead) wouldn’t have died
if we (I) wasn’t there…
no one understands.
Now, and seldom again ever,
I have to write this travel—
Art : Life ratio must be equal,
no matter of the numbers
because they’re only digits,
dig it?
No worries.
All is well,
and if not now,
soon.
This eternal train ride,
forever entrenched in a shroud
of mystery now,
is too long.
My stomach burns,
for what,
I don’t know.
Everything is blue
not sad,
just blue.
No one’s sad,
there’s no reason for it—
Newark, Delaware is just too happy…
but I don’t know why.
I don’t think
we’re not in DC, or Jersey for
that matter—
Wilmington, Delaware
no place,
no location,
only name.
(Does he have
a name
or does he live somewhere
other than here?
Does he know
there is nothing?
Not now I add regretfully.)
The train tracks
of this town
are old and rusty
iron ore, and all dug up
from somewhere west of Philly,
and north,
right?
Because at this point
there is no point, or,
I haven’t found it yet.
So I could find it yet,
on the shores of the land at hand.
And this is the wild sea,
on land, this transport—
so how could it be,
no revelations
while in DC?