new book, prosepomes and train rides: jan. '98

I think the train is haunted. Whines of old passengers simmer coldly thru this metal cartridge we sit in. Each stop stopped its stories by killing each passenger with speed. With whizzing sights the mind cannot fix a narrative, and to paraphrase cousin Jack: everything pours in. They wait, knowing they carry their damage. Everyone is too cynical to run anymore. Narratives bump to rouse the dreamers from the dream, the bookers from the read, and complete strangers from spurious connection that will never, ever culminate in an ideally stained hotel room. New Jersey has worn out her welcome, move along citizen. I've decided that patience is the worse part of seeing many lights knowing their shouted story can't penetrate this damned curious womb-like metal hot dog.

I want to talk and talk and talk. I want to stop listening with my eyes. No flow interrupts my stillborn notions. No Tao, no Buddha, no illumination, no highest state. I prefer bugs, and ashed-in wine. Dig into the earth like Arthur Miller, I want to bleed like the ground. People are under the impression we're sharks, we stop we die. From the Rift Valley to the Fertile Crescent diving off of Ireland until the Appalachians tripped us as we clawed after the sun, which doused itself in that big drop of water. We bounced inward, got dusted and dug in to wreck our home properly. At least the poor have the courage to stand with their waste. So we look up at a Chinese moon, even with a stupid flag sticking out of its ass, it mocks our sense of macrocosm.

later, epilogue for a notebook left half done: jan. '98

The blank
helps...
It expresses
why '97
was more
than a year