Now is not a time for frivolous, trivial journals
About days and hours and minutes
And the events they have touched,
The things boiling, lively
Within them.
This is not a journal for things,
Short-lived sighs of our material world;
The rushing, rushing by of life,
But without the nostalgia of a train
Ride separating lovers
Two toiling tracks at a time–
Bolt– Track
Or, even the allure of a subway car,
Gliding through its veins beneath
Tarred skin, glass hair and satellite eyes.
The train disappears,
Growling itself to sleep in its tunnels,
Leaving the body on the tracks,
Few feet shy of the
Commandment line screaming, begging
You, “DO NOT CROSS”
Yes, you’ve got it now,
The experience, the things must be made,
Forged by the broken and bruised hands
Of the ****** and the lost into thoughts
So that the body swept away and coddled in the man-made night
May learn,
Even if infinity has passed,
It cannot be too late or the saints would be out of a job and
The earth drained
Of all redemption.
