An Amtrak train travelling to Washington, DC
It was Union Station bound
The Amtrak train was maneuvering in acceleration in sound
Everything was moving in a timely fashion
At least that is what the passengers thought
Then suddenly the Amtrak came to an immediate stop
Mechanical problems came up
Meanwhile the Amtrak train being stuck on the rails
Apparently something on the train had failed
One of the passengers felt the train would be stuck for a while
The passenger took action in style
So the passenger called from his cell a nearby Pizza Restaurant, and had the Pizza delivered directly to the Amtrak train
The passenger thought, “If I am going to be stuck on the rails, it’s going to be feed my hunger being the trail”
But the question does come up
There’s a snack car aboard, and why wasn’t it utilized?
I guess with mechanical problems with no power, all the Amtrak Personnel aboard could do was apologize
The Amtrak train finally arrived in Washington, DC three hours late
I would have taken the bus and avoided the fuss.

I met him on the Amtrak line to Central Jersey. His name was Walker, and his surname Norris. I thought there was a certain charm to that. He was a Texas man, and he fell right into my image of what a Texas man should look like. Walker was tall, about 6’4”, with wide shoulders and blue eyes. He had semi-long hair, tied into a weak ponytail that hung down from the wide brim hat he wore on his head. As for the hat, you could tell it had seen better days, and the brim was starting to droop slightly from excessive wear. Walker had on a childish smile that he seemed to wear perpetually, as if he were entirely unmoved by the negative experiences of his own life. I have often thought back to this smile, and wondered if I would trade places with him, knowing that I could be so unaffected by my suffering. I always end up choosing despair, though, because I am a writer, and so despair to me is but a reservoir of creativity. Still, there is a certain romance to the way Walker braved the world’s slings and arrows, almost oblivious to the cruel intentions with which they were sent at him.
“I never think people are out to get me.” I remember him saying, in the thick, rich, southern drawl with which he spoke, “Some people just get confused sometimes. Ma’ momma always used to tell me, ‘There ain’t nothing wrong with trustin’ everyone, but soon as you don’t trust someone trustworthy, then you’ve got another problem on your hands.’”—He was full of little gems like that.
As it turns out, Walker had traveled all the way from his hometown in Texas, in pursuit of his runaway girlfriend, who in a fit of frenzy, had run off with his car…and his heart. The town that he lived in was a small rinky-**** miner’s village that had been abandoned for years and had recently begun to repopulate. It had no train station and no bus stop, and so when Walker’s girlfriend decided to leave with his car, he was left struggling for transportation. This did not phase Walker however, who set out to look for his runaway lover in the only place he thought she might go to—her mother’s house.
So Walker started walking, and with only a few prized possessions, he set out for the East Coast, where he knew his girlfriend’s family lived. On his back, Walker carried a canvas bag with a few clothes, some soap, water and his knife in it. In his pocket, he carried $300, or everything he had that Lisa (his girlfriend) hadn’t stolen. The first leg of Walker’s odyssey he described as “the easy part.” He set out on U.S. 87, the highway closest to his village, and started walking, looking for a ride. He walked about 40 or 50 miles south, without crossing a single car, and stopping only once to get some water. It was hot and dry, and the Texas sun beat down on Walker’s pale white skin, but he kept walking, without once complaining. After hours of trekking on U.S. 87, Walker reached the passage to Interstate 20, where he was picked up by a man in a rust-red pickup truck. The man was headed towards Dallas, and agreed o take Walker that far, an offer that Walker graciously accepted.
“We rode for **** near five and a half hours on the highway to Dallas,” Walker would later tell me. “We didn’t stop for food, or drink or nuthin’. At one point the driver had to stop for a pisscall, that is, to use the bathroom, or at least that’s why I reckon we stopped; he didn’t speak but maybe three words the whole ride. He just stopped at this roadside gas station, went in for a few minutes and then back into the car and back on the road we went again. Real funny character the driver was, big bearded fellow with a mean look on his brow, but I never would have made it to Dallas if not for him, so I guess he can’t have been all that mean, huh?”
Walker finally arrived in Dallas as the nighttime reached the peak of its darkness. The driver of the pickup truck dropped him off without a word, at a corner bus stop in the middle of the city. Walker had no place to stay, nobody to call, and worst of all, no idea where he was at all. He walked from the corner bus stop to a run-down inn on the side of the road, and got himself a room for the night for $5. The beds were hard and the sheets were *****, and the room itself had no bathroom, but it served its purpose and it kept Walker out of the streets for the night.
The next morning, Texas Walker Norris woke up to a growl. It was his stomach, and suddenly, Walker remembered that he hadn’t eaten in almost two days. He checked out of the inn he had slept in, and stepped into the streets of Dallas, wearing the same clothes as he wore the day before, and carrying the same canvas bag with the soap and the knife in it. After about an hour or so of walking around the city, Walker came up to a small ***** restaurant that served food within his price range. He ordered Chicken Fried Steak with a side of home fries, and devoured them in seconds flat. After that, Walker took a stroll around the city, so as to take in the sights before he left. Eventually, he found his way to the city bus station, where he boarded a Greyhound bus to Tallahassee. It took him 26 hours to get there, and at the end of everything he vowed to never take a bus like that again.
“See I’m from Texas, and in Texas, everything is real big and free and stuff. So I ain’t used to being cooped up in nothin’ for a stended period of time. I tell you, I came off that bus shaking, sweating, you name it. The poor woman sitting next to me thought I was gunna have a heart attack.” Walker laughed.
When Walker laughed, you understood why Texans are so proud of where they live. His was a low, rumbling bellow that built up into a thunderous, booming laugh, finally fizzling into the raspy chuckle of a man who had spent his whole life smoking, yet in perfect health. When Walker laughed, you felt something inside you shake and vibrate, both in fear and utter admiration of the giant Texan man in front of you. If men were measured by their laughs, Walker would certainly be hailed as king amongst men; but he wasn’t. No, he was just another man, a lowly man with a perpetual childish grin, despite the godliness of his bellowing laughter.
“When I finally got to Tallahassee I didn’t know what to do. I sure as hell didn’t have my wits about me, so I just stumbled all around the city like a chick without its head on. I swear, people must a thought I was a madman with the way I was walkin’, all wide-eyed and frazzled and stuff. One guy even tried to mug me, ‘till he saw I didn’t have no money on me. Well that and I got my knife out of my bag right on time.” Another laugh. “You know I knew one thing though, which was I needed to find a place to stay the night.”
So Walker found himself a little pub in Tallahassee, where he ordered one beer and a shot of tequila. To go with that, he got himself a burger, which he remembered as being one of the better burgers he’d ever had. Of course, this could have just been due to the fact that he hadn’t eaten a real meal in so long. At some point during this meal, Walker turned to the bartender, an Irish man with short red hair and muttonchops, and asked him if he knew where someone could find a place to spend the night in town.
“Well there are a few hotels in the downtown area but ah wouldn’t recommend stayin’ in them. That is unless ye got enough money to jus’ throw away like that, which ah know ye don’t because ah jus’ saw ye take yer money out to pay for the burger. That an’ the beer an’ shot. Anyway, ye could always stay in one of the cheap motels or inns in Tallahassee. That’ll only cost ye a few dollars for the night, but ye might end up with bug bites or worse. Frankly, I don’t see many an option for ye, less you wanna stay here for the night, which’ll only cost ye’, oh, about nine-dollars-whattaya-say?”
Walker was stunned by the quickness of the Irishman’s speech. He had never heard such a quick tongue in Texas, and everyone knew Texas was auction-ville. He didn’t know whether to trust the Irishman or not, but he didn’t have the energy or patience to do otherwise, and so Walker Norris paid nine dollars to spend the night in the back room of a Tallahassee pub.
As it turns out, the Irishman’s name was Jeremy O’Neill, and he had just come to America about a year and a half ago. He had left his hometown in Dublin, where he owned a bar very similar to the one he owned now, in search of a girl he had met that said she lived in Florida. As it turns out, Florida was a great deal larger than Jeremy had expected, and so he spent the better part of that first year working odd jobs and drinking his pay away. He had worked in over 25 different cities in Florida, and on well over 55 different jobs, before giving up his search and moving to Tallahassee. Jeremy wrote home to his brother, who had been manning his bar in Dublin the whole time Jeremy was away, and asked for some money to help start himself off. His brother sent him the money, and after working a while longer as a painter for a local construction company, he raised enough money to buy a small run down bar in central Tallahassee, the bar he now ran and operated. Unfortunately, the purchase had left him in terrible debt, and so Jeremy had set up a bed in the back room, where he often housed overly drunk customers for a price. This way, he could make back the money to pay for the rest of the bar.
Walker sympathized with the Irishman’s story. In Jeremy, he saw a bit of himself; the tired, broken traveler, in search of a runaway love. Jeremy’s story depressed Walker though, who was truly convinced his own would end differently. He knew, he felt, that he would find Lisa in the end.
Walker hardly slept that night, despite having paid nine dollars for a comfortable bed. Instead, he got drunk with Jeremy, as the two of them downed a bottle of whisky together, while sitting on the floor of the pub, talking. They talked about love, and life, and the existence of God. They discussed their childhoods and their respective journeys away from their homes. They laughed as they spoke of the women they loved and they cried as they listened to each other’s stories. By the time Walker had sobered up, it was already morning, and time for a brand new start. Jeremy gave Walker a free bottle of whiskey, which after serious protest, Walker put in his bag, next to his knife and the soap. In exchange, Walker tried to give Jeremy some money, but Jeremy stubbornly refused, like any Irishman would, instead telling Walker to go **** himself, and to send him a postcard when he got to New York. Walker thanked Jeremy for his hospitality, and left the bar, wishing deeply that he had slept, but not regretting a minute of the night.
Little time was spent in Tallahassee that day. As soon as Walker got out on the streets, he asked around to find out where the closest highway was. A kind old woman with a cane and bonnet told him where to go, and Walker made it out to the city limits in no time. He didn’t even stop to look around a single time.
Once at the city limits, Walker went into a small roadside gas station, where he had a microwavable burrito and a large 50-cent slushy for breakfast. He stocked up on chips and peanuts, knowing full well that this may have been his last meal that day, and set out once again, after filling up his water supply. Walker had no idea where to go from Tallahassee, but he knew that if he wanted to reach his girlfriend’s mother’s house, he had to go north. So Walker started walking north, on a road the gas station attendant called FL-61, or Thomasville Road. He walked for something like seven or eight miles, before a group of college kids driving a camper pulled up next to him. They were students at the University of Georgia and were heading back to Athens from a road trip they had taken to New Orleans. The students offered to take Walker that far, and Walker, knowing only that this took him north, agreed.
The students drove a large camper with a mini-bar built into it, which they had made themselves, and stacked with beer and water. They had been down in New Orleans for the Mardi Gras season, and were now returning, thought the party had hardly stopped for them. As they told Walker, they picked a new designated driver every day, and he was appointed the job of driving until he got bored, while all the others downed their beers in the back of the camper. Because their system relied on the driver’s patience, they had almost doubled the time they should have made on their trip, often stopping at roadside motels so that the driver could get his drink on too. These were their “pit-stops”, where they often made the decision to either eat or court some of the local girls drunkenly.
This leg of the trip Walker seemed to glaze over quickly. He didn’t talk much about the ride, the conversation, or the people, but from what I gathered, from his smile and the way his eyes wandered, I could tell it was a fun one. Basically, the college kids, of which I figure there were about five or six, got Walker drunk and drove him all the way to Athens, Georgia, where they took him to their campus and introduced him to all of their friends. The leader of the group, a tall, athletic boy with long brown hair and dimples, let him sleep in his dorm for the night, and set him up with a ride to the train station the next morning. There, Walker bought himself a ticket to Atlanta, and said his goodbyes. Apparently, the whole group of students followed him to the station, where they gave him some food and said goodbye to him. One student gave Walker his parent’s number, telling him to call them when he got to Atlanta, if he needed a place to sleep. Then, from one minute to the next, Walker was on the train and gone.
When Walker got to Atlanta, he did not call his friend’s family right away. Instead, he went to the first place he saw with food, which happened to be a small, rundown place that sold corndogs and coke for a dollar per item. Walker bought himself three corndogs and a coke, and strolled over to a nearby park, where, he sat down on a bench and ate. As Walker sat, dipping his corndogs into a paper plate covered in ketchup, an old woman took the seat directly next to him, and started writing in a paper notepad. He looked over at her, and tried to see what she was writing, but she covered up her pad and his efforts were wasted. Still, Walker kept trying, and eventually the woman got annoyed and mentioned it.
“Sir, I don’t mind if you are curious, but it is terribly, terribly rude to read over another person’s shoulder as they write.” The woman’s voice was rough and beautiful, changed by time, but bettered, like fine wine.
“I’m sorry ma’am, it’s just that I’ve been on the road for a while now, and I reckon I haven’t really read anything in, ****, probably longer than that. See I’m lookin’ to find my girlfriend up north, on account of she took my car and ran away from home and all.”
“Well that is certainly a shame, but I don’t see why that should rid you of your manners.” The woman scolded Walker.
“Yes ma’am, I’m sorry. What I meant to convey was that, I mean, I kind of just forgot I guess. I haven’t had too much time to exercise my manners and all, but I know my mother would have educated me better, so I apologize but I just wanted to read something, because I think that’s something important, you know? I’ll stop though, because I don’t want to annoy you, so sorry.”
The woman seemed amused by Walker, much as a parent finds amusement in the cuteness of another’s children. His childish, simple smile bore through her like a sword, and suddenly, her own smile softened, and she opened up to him.
“Oh, don’t be silly. All you had to do was ask, and not be so unnervingly discreet about it.” She replied, as she handed her pad over to Walker, so that he could read it. “I’m a poet, see, or rather, I like to write poetry, on my own time. It relaxes me, and makes me feel good about myself. Take a look.”
Walker took the pad from the woman’s hands. They were pale and wrinkly, but were held steady as a rock, almost as if the age displayed had not affected them at all. He opened the pad to a random page, and started reading one of the woman’s poems. I asked Walker to recite it for me, but he said he couldn’t remember it. He did, however, say that it was one of the most beautiful things he had ever read, a lyrical, flowing, ode to t

Big Four Railroad
In the past a little one had an interest in this story and one of the racers and the longest freight train
The race team was in the living room and their story was being read from the paper mother clueless
We laughed and snickered about our secret that old engineer was proud of us we were not vain
Down the hill we sped past Bino’s station across Jackson the B&O; he was high balling we had to pour it
On between the two tracks he was closing the gap he had nothing to lose but his pride for us it was
Curtains the long black limo a one way ride we streaked the line fifteen feet to spare we just stopped
And turned what a salutation from the engineer half hanging out the widow of that great engine his
Balled fist a shaking you sons with the deafening roar of that train so close we didn’t get to hear the rest
And the train carried him on down the track so Jerry and Larry and the other guy continued on to the
Swimming pool pleased with our speed we forgot about it until on the front of the paper in the bottom
corner it read three Pana youths out run train I guess the old engineer cooled off as he sailed on down
The track we didn’t know he talked to the tower as he passed so we didn’t get first prize or a blue
Ribbon but in a small way we entered into the great and wonderful tales of train lore along with Jessie
and Frank I told you when in trouble I had three actions fight talk or run that day the running won the
Day for these three amigos this memory was triggered by that same old paper this time it was talking
About the Amtrak detour I remember those passengers all those years ago setting there in their seats
flying through our town and the hook and the mail sack from the tower where that old bakery could be
smelled all night all the way out at the park as we watched tables for old F.S. Refinery I’m glad we didn’t
race a passenger train or this would be a hamburger story enjoy G.H.

There are 140,490 miles of railroad in the United States,
21,000 miles of Amtrak rails,
Amtrak owns 2,142 railway cars
plus 425 locomotives,
only one station near Atlanta,
(the ones by Toccoa, Jesup, and Savannah don’t ******* count)
and just the two of us.
My point is:
There’s a good chance I’ll see you again someday

Maybe plans will never work out,
and I won’t have you in my life the way I’d like.
Maybe we’ll grow into two completely different lives,
but we promise to meet up every five years.
Maybe we both just disappear for a while,
and just happen upon the same town/train station one day.
Maybe we’ll never be close friends,
or lovers,
but maybe,
just maybe,
there’s a good chance I’ll see you again someday.

When I was young,
I used to follow the train tracks.
For miles and miles and miles,
just waiting for my train to take me away.
And when I got home I’d have so many stories to tell.
I saw two dogs *******,
And a family of opossums,
And a dead deer,
And a really pretty bug,
(And I got you some flowers but I dropped them,
when I thought the dogs were chasing me)
But your parents would always get mad at me for disappearing
when they’re supposed to be watching me until
my mom gets home.
And they’d tell me,
“do you have any idea how upset she’d be if
she knew you ran off like that?”
And I’d apologize for going off by myself
And they’d say,
“We forgive you. We won’t tell her
Just this once.”
But they’d never
never hear me
when I tried to tell them:
I can’t help it. There’s a big, beautiful, country out there
…and I want to see it.

Then when I got older,
I kept following the train tracks.
For miles and miles and miles.
Except now, I was a little more grown up.
I didn’t just disappear anymore,
walking along the tracks.
No, I had responsibilities
and obligations
and most of all,
a little money.
So, this time, I actually got to ride the train.
So my trains took me away,
And when I got home I had so many stories to tell.
I saw two drunks *******,
And a family of musicians,
And a ****** on the nod,
And a really pretty tree,
(And I got you some jewelry, but I dropped it,
When I thought the drunks were chasing me)
But more than all of that,
I saw a girl.
She was beautiful and funny and kind and smart.
But they didn’t have time to listen to my stories,
About the drunks and the tree and the girl,
Because we had responsibilities and obligations.
So I didn’t even bother
Trying to tell them,
I have to go back. There’s a big, beautiful, country out there
…and I have to see it.

So,
I don’t know if I’ll see you again, or
If I’ll get to follow all the train tracks I want,
But there are 140,490 miles of railroad in the United States,
And it’s a big, beautiful country out there,
So it might be planned,
Or by mistake,
Or luck,
Or divine providence,
But I think
I hope
I pray
There’s a good chance I’ll see you again someday.

Yesterday
Last night
And today
I recognized your face
fully for the first time.
I saw who you were
and you are beautiful.
You are a true soul
gravitating to all that is Good
all that is Pure.
Pulling me towards you
I become Good
I become Pure.
I am where I should be.

Happiness enters
me as I gravitate up to
You.

I am in awe of your face
I am falling for your hands
I am breathing you in forever.

and although this train selfishly slices through this humid July night and the long, tired miles that now separate us,
I  smile--for I know the rocking of this train is nothing but you with your arms around me.
You will always be around me.

America on a map!
Imagine the northeast corner.
I am in Vermont riding the Amtrak southbound. It's raining.
The clattering of wheels tearing through rusty iron tracks.
Forehead against the cold window's glass,
I hear a steam whistle.
I look out the window: grey, drizzling.
We roll,
past the barbed-wire fences that crown the prison fence,
past great, soggy fields littered with old tractors, and misty mountains far behind,
past brown silos that rise up, thick and crowned with silver heads,
past a deer leaping through a rainy field,
past a propane company--five great, white propane tanks,
past a marsh, harpooned by a telephone pole--a sparrow jumps off the wire,
a cemetery on a green hill,
little brick towns,
the Interstate--rainbow colored tipi in a field behind,
past a great, charcoal cliff, hard with sharp creases like a crumpled piece of black construction
        paper buried,
past a Sunoco station--green dumpster in the parking lot,
into a thick wood--past the cold rocks,
past brown leaves poking through the dusting on forest floor,
past all the pines, which have dandruff,
past twiggy sapling branches, only leaves withered and curled like dried jalapenos,
over a bridge--the great, cold river, wide and glassy--islands of ice and snow--the riverbank dirt is
        hard.
The bell dings thrice.
The train begins to slow.
It stops, jerks me back in my seat.
The steam whistle blows.
I look out the window.

Concrete platform, dark red station & roof,
a crowd of boys and girls, standing with perfect posture in sharp blue uniforms, hats adorned with
        golden crests,
they march on the train
and fill up the seats
of The Great Metal Snake: hollow and in it people sit,
The Great Metal Snake: slithering down the state,
It will leave me in a small city soon,
at an overcast station,
and slither down to D.C.,
and slither back, with the oily clatter of spinning iron wheels . . .
We took the snakes,
out of of our nightmares,
slimy green sliding through cupped hands to jump and bite your cheek, hanging like a lanyard,
or sliding through the sweat of jungle-floors waiting to bite ankles,
or coiled in redbarns, on piles of hay with spiders dropping down cold open windows in front of
        full moon,
full moon: silver train wheel.
I hear the steam whistle.

We took the snakes,
out of our nightmares,
dissected them with scalpals,
nodded and walked to the drawing board then built.
Decades later, the unveiling:
The platform crowd leans over the tracks and looks,
the bell dings thrice,
the steam whistle hisses,
the engine is coughing,
wheels are chugging--
around the corner He came,
with great, clear eyes like glasses:
black, iron Anaconda of Industry.
His brothers are barreling
From New York to Sacramento,
Siberia to Stalingrad,
Italy to France,
under the English channel,
down Africa.
From Burlington to Brattleboro--
barreling down the state--
I am riding His brother home.

If you are standing you need to sit
But if you are sitting, you are at where you need to be
To start off, I am the adventurous type, but economical
I was planning a vacation to Los Angeles by rail
But continue to follow me throughout the trail
I called Amtrak to see how much a compartment would cost, but remember this was in 1983
Boy did I get a price surprise!
The Amtrak Travel Agent asked me if I was standing
I told the Travel Agent I am standing across going across country
The Travel Agent later stated, it’s not for your trip, but at the present state
Now that I can relate
I told the lady I was standing, but was informed, I need to sit for this
The round trip compartment fare in 1983 was $1,100
I responded, that can’t be the price as I am getting the entire car
But that wasn’t the case as it was the distance
One Room with a private toilet
Later I responded, the only thing cheaper was coach
I guess I would have to hop aboard a Freight train and travel low class in a caboose
Perhaps jump on a back of a moose
At that time, at least I was still in my youth
The train sounded too much
I figured, I may have to gallop on a horse
Of course Of course
I do know how to ride a horse
But that would take even longer
Well the Hound bus won out
The round trip fare was $99.00 in 1983
I did travel to Los Angeles being my route
There you have it, a railing thought being the highway end
However I was asked why didn’t I fly?
My question was simply why?
It was Cross Country with scenery to see
It was captivation scenery that had me
There you have my past vacation flow
I put you in the know
But for now, it’s time for me too go.

You are as tall and beautiful as the Singer Building in New York City,
But your father calls you mustard seed.
The slits on your wrist spell out save me.
She protested black is no longer a color, but her insides,
And if her mom''s job is saving lives, why isn't she saving her daughter's?
When her mom hugged her it stung-
The needle and ink stippled in her back the expectations placed on her.
Her kitchen is a court where her parents find her guilty of being a teenager.
Her parents don't introduce her by name,
But by her future vocation.
The pretentious white picket fence and a dog that barks when you call it Max are distilled with dreams of catching the next Amtrak to California.
She spends twenty minutes a day cutting the rope her mother has involuntarily wrapped around her neck-
Choking out the little identity left
She screams, "Stop tearing down my infrastructure!"

The journey through time
The railing that became mine
It was the Amtrak Broadway Limited experience
New York City to Chicago in endurance
Railing all the way
The Diesel engine and the passenger cars
A Diner aboard but had to go far
A journey into tomorrow
My story on morrow
Speeding through the Amish fields
One wave in the greetings deal
A nighttime approach
Sleeping good in my coach
Crossing flashing signal lights
The whole ride being a sight
In the distance Chicago stands tall
The Sears Tower being the observation for all
The train finally puts into Chicago Union Station
My 7 days vacation being the indication
I stepped off the train
Chicago is far from being plain
My return trip home to New York will be by train
My everlasting memories in what will remain.

Blank man......
Mind full of emptiness..
Aqua man..
Mind full of water...
Bat man...
Mind full of wealth...
Super man
Mind full of Lois Lane...

Speeding stoping amtrak trains...
And she still on his brain
Do you want that love
do you desire that love
Well my name is Clark Kent
And I can acquire that Love
Super human love
Kind that God sent
and save you from it all.

You just be yourself
Dont ever have to change
And I'll provide you wealth
For nothings out of range
All the creatures in the sea
Will envy you and me
Cuz they will never have
this love that makes us glad

This super human love
speeding train feeling
Polar bear hugs
No baby your not dreaming
As I stated once before
My name is Quentin Briscoe
And Im your superman
Your one and only hero....

An Amtrak train traveling south
The train departed from New York Penn Station
Well I was on my way on vacation
We departed from New York at One PM
Through the tunnel and rails we went
I am definitely on my journey being heaven sent
It will be an overnight ride
Arriving in my destination of Atlanta being my stride
Before we get there
There is some time to spare
As the night lights were out on the train
Something happened and let me explain
The Amtrak Conductor rushed through the train
Suddenly the Engineer applied the brakes
My response was “Oh for goodness sakes”
Apparently someone was trying to jump off the moving train in suicide
This was hard to put aside
The passenger was taken off because he didn’t abide
Death that could have been in a passenger’s try
Well the train proceeded on and the night seemed very long
We arrived in Atlanta On Time, and the exploration was mine.

The static havoc
In my attic
Is automatic
And so emphatic
Excruciating pain
Roosting in rain
Boosting the grain
But flooding my lane

While playing cosmic roulette
I'm charged a clockwise debt
Paid by traveling to my death
Like anthrax on Amtrak
The FBI can't track
So the decay stacks
Turning everything black

Something's amiss
In this blinding abyss
That grabs my wrist
And drains my bliss
So I seek shelter
But get peltered
Helter skelter
By the belters

Tired of lies
Afraid I'll die
I see your eyes
As a sweet surprise
Then watch paint dry
Unlike the tears I cry
From the fear inside
You'll hurt my pride

Honestly
You harvest me
Until you're part of me
Making it hard to see
Where I'll be
If you flee
From my plea
And just leave

So I continue wheeling
To my glass ceiling
In need of timely healing
I forget my frightened feeling
And turn to hope
Until you say nope
A slippery *****
With which I can't cope

I thought I was saved
Instead I feel shame
From this disgraceful game
Called you don't feel the same
Which has gotten me lost
Frozen in frost
The coldest cost
As garbage tossed

You kindly offer your friendship
Unable to kiss my friend's lips
Unable to grab my friend's hips
Unable to let myself slip
I find something profound
Traveling on ground
With you around
Safe and sound

You offer insight
Increasing my might
By seeing the light
When you are right
You help me fight
My perilous plight
By making pain slight
Removing my fright

My perception of you is traveling
On this road that is gravelly
I once desired you madly
Now others have had me
But that doesn't change when I'm lonely
I wish you would hold me
Unable to forsake the old me
I just continue traveling coldly

A group of girls pass me by
Dressed in their fancy dresses
Talking about some guy
Long island  girls I think
Do they know a different world exists
I'd rather listen to the hobo
Strumming his guitar
Singing  about his sorrows
I give him a beer to forget life
As I try to forget mine

Amtrak to philadelphia departs at 730
Platform 4 says the screen
Where are all these people traveling to?
Am I drunk?
I've only had few
What happened to the days I could drink
Am I old?
Now I'm just thinking too much
Time for another beer
"That'll be 5 bucks!"

(New York City, 6/30/2012)

my mom called, i cried by the dhall, on facetime
been thinking about how lucky we are to be alive
even if to deal with mornings and swollen eyes
even if dad's always on the night shift, even with
this big rift caused by the distance and the lack of time
just because we made out once doesn't mean you're mine
i got glimpses of a pink top, my blanket of a jacket
i bet it would look classier if you were wearing it
but you're distant and cold and partying is getting old
i'm forever out of polaroid film and cheap distractions
so i took an amtrak home, straight from south station
the flight back to boston was short but still exhausting
and when i walk home alone, the silence is unsettling
seems we're both better than i thought at method acting

Go to hell you daisy-eyed Rue21 priestesses
Clamoring for significance in ***** dressing rooms
Ashy skinned in clumsy selfies, splayed out like convenience stores
There's dust on your shelves and all your candy is stale.

Go to bed you pajama-pantsed prima donnas
bleached blonde and child-weary, swiping plastic for apple juice
Can't you see I have to go to work?
Pick your ******* cigarettes already!

Go to church you ******* hypocrites
You incessant fat barking chihuahuas
If Karen at the office is so insufferable,
why don't you just leave?

Go **** yourselves you snide social statisticians
prancing around prize racehorses
You'll be glue on somebody /else's/ eyelashes when you're done.

Sitting in the dining car of a 1996 Amtrak rail car clamoring for the next available outlet.  

Across from me is a bohemian mistress who looks like she just wandered into the car from the 70's.

Out of place in this time and type of train. She sits silently reading a a favorite work from one the the greater unknown Inspirational-ist's.

An occasional giggle fills the air from a joke only she knows and understands. Disregard for the rules and regulations around her. Oblivious to the others in the car snacking on sandwiches and slurping up their pops.

I notice though. I sit and can't help but look at her. There's a wonder and awe about her persona. A pull towards her careless aura. It's intoxicating.  

We hit Kalamazoo and like a hiccup she's gone.

Out to dance towards her next spot. Wherever that may be.

Still I sit. Waiting for my charging to be done

Time spent traveling is time wisely spent,
hours are filled with enriching experiences
and soul-searching moments

my morning trip to San Diego was such...
my eyes feasted on a blue-green ocean,
with daring surfers atop cresting waves;
and then there were my fellow farers...

the atmosphere inside the Amtrak
was a mix of moods...of voices of folks...
silent ones slept the whole trip...several,
had coffee and bread, while reflecting...
some were already working ahead of time,
giving instructions via their mobile phones...
a few were smiling, taking life positively,
maybe, dwelling on pleasant memories;
others wore serious faces...in deep thought,
maybe thinking of love's and life's unfairness,
sad realities they leave behind each morning,
the same ones they go home to each night.

boarding a train is one chapter,
getting off is another.....the platform is
where situations end, or, a fresh start awaits:
new job, a family...finding one's self somewhere,
ending a relationship...moving on when a loved
one dies...drifters are ever, "just passing through,"
they go....wherever the train takes them...

trips are inward journeys...the hours open
and clear our minds, leaving realizations
and wiser perspectives over nagging issues
we shun...or, defy; we try to change what
can be changed in our lives...and accept
with peace...what...cannot be changed...

we are on a journey...we are farers all,
...........in this train...called life...


Sally

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
July 5, 2019

I was travelling aboard the Amtrak Crescent
It had a 2:00 pm Departure from New York City Penn Station to New Orleans, La, but my destination was Atlanta, Ga.
We pulled from Penn On-time
My vacation had finally begun
I was going on an adventure that was sure to be fun
I am moving forward here
It was 1:30 am and suddenly the train made an immediate stop on the dime with precision
I almost felt out of my reclining seat, as I was fast asleep
In my passenger train car, we noticed the Conductor was pacing back and forth and moving swiftly through the car
That memory I will never erase
We asked the conductor what was wrong, and he stated, another passenger was trying to jump off the train
It all happened when another conductor was passing through one of the passenger cars, and she noticed the passenger had pulled down one of the top window doors within that specific car, but later noticed the passenger was getting ready to do a running start while the train was moving at 120 wpm.
That was when the Engineer was alerted to stop immediately
But the courageous female conductor succeeded in stopping him, but she almost when out with him in the situation
That wasn’t part of my vacation, but an accord of what actually happened aboard
However, no life loss and thank the Good Lord.

I slid down a hill
on nothing but a tarp and hose water
in the middle hick town new york
with a family i didn’t even know
because my best friend thought we would have fun.
We did.
But the next day we got so high
we thought we could make dub step from our mouths.
When we tried it sober
it sounded nothing like dub step.
Just kind of like a beat up basement home
and not enough people for a party.
Kind of like the soft music you play after a panic attack,
everything sounds so
forced.
This one time,
I kissed a girl so ******* the mouth
that she took a step back and just said
”…thank you.”
I have no idea what she was thanking me for,
but i learned to thank her body
in more ways than just prayer.
She sounded like an orchestra,
Bach or back but god ******
if she didn’t leave scratches on everything instrument.
One time,
I got thrown into a mosh pit
and some big dude carried me out
and punched the person who pushed me in
so hard in the face that i swear
i saw his mothers veins give out.
It was like an amtrak railway collision,
fist and apology, metal and music,
the kind of rock you get stuck in-between
next to that hard place.

One time,
I slid into my best friend
because we thought we would have fun.
We did.
She had to take a step back
and said nothing but Thank You.
A broken body prayer healed
with blankets like tarp, claiming her my new york.
It was like being thrown into a mosh pit
but there wasn’t anyone there to carry me out
because it wasn’t an accident.
Just a mistake.
Now we don’t talk and last night
I got so high that I tried to make music from my mouth,
replay her symphony, echo it
in my beat up basement of a chest.
The hollow wind chime of organs or intestines,
ragged breathing from the smoke
she snake charmed down my throat.
She was so smooth. Soft.
Kind of like the music you play
after a panic attack,
everything feels so
forced.

It was aboard the Amtrak Crescent train to Atlanta and New Orleans
Railing tracks being a vacation to not look back
There were stops the train made
But as night had fallen needing no shade
I was sitting in coach folks, suddenly the train made an immediate stop
A passenger on the train wanted this be a “Death Knot”
Immediately the conductor ran through the train
The train remained still for a while
There was no one walking idle
The passenger wanted to commit suicide and jump off
Another Conductor saw the passengers and avoided the attempt
The passenger wanted the situation  to be “Passenger leaps to his Death”
But life was for him to live
Death wasn’t make a call
The passenger was subdued in stall
The train proceeded on
I don’t know how, but the train was on schedule and arrived where it belonged
Fate that could have come too late
It simply wasn’t the passenger’s time fitting the slate.

My whole body ******* hurts
Got that post dance ache
Kisses in a black shirt
That guy, he found me all night
But we release our juices at the same time
Long Eyelashes and I.

Phone vibrating and calculating
Edit and stir **** up
A girl cussed me out last night
Because she thought I grabbed her ***?
What is the world coming to.

A woman and a woman
I would never shame a woman
So don't drop the f bomb
On a girl you really don't know.

Venus and hair virginal bones
Everyone afraid of amtrak now
World, let us be safe
Be so safe
Be so sweet.

"You would be really fun to go to a ******* with"
My poor little Bohemian Lover says to me
But I know the truth.

My eyes hurt and are swollen these days
All that whiskey and braless chest today
But a stranger asks me to watch his computer
I wish he was cute.

I wanna make so much
I wanna do so much
Sleep seems like such a chore
I don't know where I'm living, just yet

The month of May.

Train 85 leaves the station and bursts into the blinding sunlight with a surreal suddenness. Below, to the left of the tracks, a field of wheat sways as though still under a summer sun. Golden-brown and lively in spite of the snow resting at its roots. The blinding sun hangs high, glimmering on the water. It gives me a headache. I try to ignore it.

Ahead of me, the laughter of two young people fills the car. I wonder if they are strangers, engaged in conversation just minutes after meeting. I wonder if they have the same destination, if they are each equally happy to be heading towards it.

To my right, across the aisle, a woman no older than fifty talks loudly on the phone about her father’s tumor and the biopsy that will soon determine if it is cancer. She sounds optimistic, and I am happy for her. I tread lightly on the thought that maybe her loud optimism is a front. I want to be happy for her. But in an hour I will get off this train, and if her father dies, I will never know.

The woman sitting next to me returns from the café car with a Dunkin' Donuts coffee and takes out her laptop. I turn down my brightness so that she can’t see that I am writing about her. Even though I write nothing bad, it feels like some sick invasion of privacy.

My fingers feel heavy. This train feels heavy.

I want to be outside, before the sun sets, while the golden-brown wheat is still bathed in light. The sun is going to set without me. I try to be okay with that.

The last time I ever wrote on an Amtrak — the last time I can remember —, it was a song about loneliness and self-destruction. It was more than two years ago. I want to be able to say that I have changed more than I actually have. But even as the world rushes past me, snow and wheat and house and sun, I still feel impossibly lonely. The heaviness from my fingers is in all of me now. I can’t shake it.

The young people ahead of me, the woman across the aisle, and the woman next to me all begin talking at once now, and I feel hot. Their words bounce back and forth off the walls, and I need to get off of this train. Receiving these airborne snippets of other lives feels wrong, feels overwhelming.

Anyone who reads this piece will think I’m insane.

The woman next to me stops speaking. The young people ahead of me quiet down. The woman across the aisle is engaged in some other conversation that I can’t exactly make out. It’s quieter. I might still break the windows of this train if I could, but it is quieter. My fingers feel a little less heavy. It is quieter. At least the insanity is in words now.

Do you remember,
two years ago

I wrote you a story,
bound with the string I could find
beneath the burned acre carpet
of my first apartment.

I gave it to you
two weeks late, on
printed cheap paper.
Chemically melted with the telling
of what I saw,
two hundred miles away
on January fifth.

I wrote about the cargo train
that passes across the street
of my university every day
at nine pm.

I told you that it drove at least two times faster
than the Amtrak, because people are more precious than cargo.

I told you about how when I was stuck
at the street crossing,
from nine to nine fifteen.
How I saw salvation
in the screaming, shaking tracks.

Tonight I heard the same train,
from outside my third apartment,
set on the opposite side of the train tracks,
a couple meters across
from where I stood two years ago,
when the smell of acid pavement
inked my memories of you,
and your eighteenth birthday.

To the unlikely Amtrak ride
the one with people
acting like cartoons.

With an announcer
over the intercom
smushing words together--
saying we'll arrive in Lodi
and then in blah blah location.

To the conductor
whom
speaks to us as children,
because to him
we look like long time
traveling companions.

He plays with our
destinations
and notices that we're going
to two different locations.

We've only known
each other existed from
the 30 minutes we rode
side by side on the bus before the train.  

No matter the time.
We've become limited-less
as it was too easy to speak
and impossible to stop.  

All the truths
we've shared will never be gone
the moment just as we felt in it
can never truly come to an end.
As long as the train keeps moving
our moment will forever trek on.

Even after I have left the ride
and you've finally fallen aleep
without my company to stir you awake.

It may never happen again
just like the dreams you're having
right this moment.
But least we came to speak
for the shortest
of train rides.

Love like an Amtrak train –
The heat made me queasy.
It clung to me and hung on to me
When I stepped off,
A vague blurry feeling
Tethered to me, or I to it.
No refuge in the streets of this new city
Or even in the comfort of my own home.
No escape from this magnet that lives in me,
On-again, off-again, but I carry it with me, tucked inside.
Eventually the dull fire was too much to imagine,
And I wondered what was next,
Frightened and longing for an impulsive new love.

-bes-

Kiss of life?
More like lips I've never touched because I had about as much Appeal as a rotten banana during my formative years
No tears now cause that was ages ago and as time goes on unstoppable like an Amtrak train
I'll maintain something close to esteem of myself while not holding too much for anyone else
What else can I write complexly laid rhymes about besides lack of esteem and crippling self doubt like Nathan Peterman after 2 pick 6's during another buffalo Bill's rout.
Kiss of life?

What's a kiss even like?