Apr 2013
I never did fall in Love with the train so much after I moved into this house just three long months ago. I have spent many short nights near it, allowing its strong and heavy heart beat to pound heavily throughout my dreams, along with its striking whistles and screams, disrupting, even awakening me at some moments. I use to envy the train, and dance near it within the darkest moments of the night. It used to read me stories in the sheer warmth and brightness of a day next to my dear oceans and stones. Its powerful vibrations would sweep through me; a calm disruption yet shattering danger; as if I would be so high that I would forget to move out of the way! Or strong arms wrapped around, as if to protect me from my own danger. This was my train.
And when I would first come to visit this house, it was the train that brought my heart pleasure. I would run up to its rusty frame, and speak of old technology and street art and sing along with all those noises that would penetrate the air!
“It is my culture! It was my home!” I would say.
All its great horns and moving. It rumbles on through, with no warning or consequence, shifting our city and angering young men in cars.
(And I think some men need to be angry.)
And Today I fell back in Love. My cigarette on porch step, she came through like an old friend. Although today my train looked sad. She was not moving so quickly, and struggled to cross. But I know why she slowed. Exposing bare metal and paints, we all needed this reminder, so we watched her strut slowly. Have I forgotten of good art? This old grandmother of oil. Rattling my City; sweeping, grinding through. Economists and Street Kids alike! We all know of this train. Now lets watch it apart:
The old man near the tree does not have a home, though we watched it together. If he could, he would smile and kiss me on the cheek, though we both know I could never accept such kindness. You see, this neighborhood is the sort where kind neighbors come door-to-door asking for spare cigarettes rather than sugar, and where beer and ******* could be considered a better party. So I shook her hand once, and exchanged good smiles and smokes, spoke shortly on the porch of our hobos and trains, and agreed in mutuality that we Loved our strange home.
“This is such a great neighborhood with such character and jazz!”
Its roaming ground people, empty pockets and buildings, seeming so ******* ugly thus enchanting us all! That building like a tree lit up by the night, it was my great shining beacon directing me to light.
My rock.
My Land.
Earth.
My rattling, tattered home, where I so nestle with Mine, my music, your screens. Our Moon and your Sun. And it blows…
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
And when I would first come to visit this house, it was the train that brought my heart pleasure. I would run up to its rusty frame, and speak of old technology and street art and sing along with all those noises that would penetrate the air!
“It is my culture! It was my home!” I would say.
All its great horns and moving. It rumbles on through, with no warning or consequence, shifting our city and angering young men in cars.
(And I think some men need to be angry.)
And Today I fell back in Love. My cigarette on porch step, she came through like an old friend. Although today my train looked sad. She was not moving so quickly, and struggled to cross. But I know why she slowed. Exposing bare metal and paints, we all needed this reminder, so we watched her strut slowly. Have I forgotten of good art? This old grandmother of oil. Rattling my City; sweeping, grinding through. Economists and Street Kids alike! We all know of this train. Now lets watch it apart:
The old man near the tree does not have a home, though we watched it together. If he could, he would smile and kiss me on the cheek, though we both know I could never accept such kindness. You see, this neighborhood is the sort where kind neighbors come door-to-door asking for spare cigarettes rather than sugar, and where beer and ******* could be considered a better party. So I shook her hand once, and exchanged good smiles and smokes, spoke shortly on the porch of our hobos and trains, and agreed in mutuality that we Loved our strange home.
“This is such a great neighborhood with such character and jazz!”
Its roaming ground people, empty pockets and buildings, seeming so ******* ugly thus enchanting us all! That building like a tree lit up by the night, it was my great shining beacon directing me to light.
My rock.
My Land.
Earth.
My rattling, tattered home, where I so nestle with Mine, my music, your screens. Our Moon and your Sun. And it blows…
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
