If buses rattle over streets
At least you jounce on comfy seats.  
Imagine a divan
Made from a frying pan
Or griddles cushioned by felt sheets.

City buses bounce and jolt
As though to loosen every bolt.  
The shocks must be missing,
A leak would be hissing.  
Or is it the potholes at fault?

i lie facedown on the train tracks.
the gravel presses symbols into my skin,
but none of them translate.

home is a concept with too many rooms.
i sharpened my alibi
on my mother’s brittle bones
until it fit into a quieter mouth.
she didn't flinch.

the sun unthreads me one fiber at a time.
nothing resists.
blink
blink
blink
each time, the world returns
slightly rearranged—
trees on the ceiling,
windows in my stomach.

i found a way out,
but it only leads back here.
the platform loops
in the shape of an open jaw.
i circled it three times,
then laid down between its metal teeth—
the world doesn’t bite anymore.
it just holds me.

small, warm,
still breathing.
regret nests in the hinge of my jaw.
i keep it clenched, and
it doesn’t protest.
it flicks the lights off
when the rail begins to sing.
it knows the schedule better than i do.

the daylight plucks at my ribs like harp strings.
each note sounds like a name i was never meant to hold.
i buried the moon weeks ago.
she made it difficult to leave.
if you’re still listening—
the train is already halfway through me.

today,
i let the mouth stay open.
maybe the scream will crawl back in.
maybe it never left.

I heard that time seems to warp in airports and stations
because our brains don’t see them as real places,
only temporary passages,
marked by their impermanence.
Inside their walls, reality is in transition,
the way dreams fade out into hazy mornings.

In this drowsiness, I am transported.

Outside the window
emerald hills and dusky clouds
glittering with gold and silver
tumble behind with alarming speed
as if propelled into motion by
the strongest of forces
and concrete blocks scratch the sky
held too high by thousands of suits
and i wonder if it hurts to run
bearing such heaviness on their shoulders
but when one falls a newer one comes
with more energy and faster feet
and they run and run and run
as if trying to escape —
but from what, and to where?

I keep projecting forwards.
My body starts to ache.

I am still in transit.

From my carriage I wonder again,
Will they arrive before me?

never knew how blinding the
sun could be before I hid from it.

the dark is a dangerously
safe place to be isn’t it?


I think I found a new emotion
it comes from experiencing
the beauty of things I find
repulsive

all the dream house
developments nestled
like cheap toys

sun glinting off the bumper
to bumper traffic
arcing above the horizon
semis blocking out the sun

parking lots
fractals of shiny beetle shell
car bodies disappearing into the glare

countless things
somewhere between awe and loathing
it’s kind of like a scream
stuck in your chest.


also,  I think I keep seeing people
who aren’t real.
they exist. other people see them too.
but they just seem out of place.
or maybe too in it.
too predictable

I say I hate public transit
but ya know
I think half the time
I like sitting on bart
more than doing
whatever the **** I left
the house to do

my mind wanders best when
my body is hurdling through
space at high speeds

Where is the mass transit sending people to?
Dispatch of souls to places unknown
See the loading ramp down by the barracks
A place to herd them into vehicles
What type vehicles and for what use?
A bus to drive them to a spar resort
A truck to take them to the firing squad
A space shuttle to take them off world
A plane to ferry them to a new colony
All this and more to relocate humans
Orders given from up above carried out
Adding up the numbers of people shifted
Under command of the always ready soldiers
Commanded by a ruthless ******* officer
Look back into the past and compare
Just like the trains at the death camps
Remember what happened then
History repeats itself over and over

I trust the bus to take me home,
I must adjust to how I roam,
From here to there,
With the slowest four wheels,
From stop to stop,
This doesn’t appeal,
To my sense of speed,
I have places to be,
Not only that,
But I have to ***.

Fingers on the rails can feel
The pulse of steel and diesel engines,
The muscle and sinew of a continent.
Ten thousand horses throb the air
And bear down on a mile of freight.
It rolls by like thunder
Under a clear blue sky, stirs the soul
With memories of lonely whistles
In the night, a desert wind, mystery lights;
When little fingers at the open window
First felt the pulse of steel and diesel,
A few million miles ago.