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Going North: Train Rides

Summer and Fall, 1992
Who am I to say I know what beats beneath such mortal cloth as this thing so proximate and inward here called "I"? On lonely streets I walk among the horrid looks of foreigners; eager to pass beyond this face and not shine back such light as might break my shadow. Cruel punishment is this to see so many mirrors; but never to see the reflection of my soul. And to gather by their refusal such hideousness as I must present. But I know this to be the city, Where caution requires the ignorance of others and pulls tight the manner of each against the light of unknown faces.
There is nothing to this old mind. Worn thin by books and silence cast against its past by love turned sour, and left adrift in crowded solitude. How long can one soul drift between the desolation of human promises and a shattered world with no sign of love or life? And in cold streets I wander turned against the cold wind which spares no time in cutting through such frail flesh. I hear the whispers of Gods in foreign tongues laugh. "And you dared think well of such fortune as though it be of your own design. As though your touch and voice were of such attendant virtue, as to win the heart of humanity or even one" They laugh in joyous polyphony.
Why do I write? It is not for the eyes of others. or is it? writing is my memory, it is my repository; my biotheca - the clay of mind I am forgetful, I need to be reminded.
June, 1993
fie! dost the screaming beggar dare raise resentment against fair judgment? Does he turn, bearing teeth, yellow against the stale breath of rancorous self-abdication, and in unknowing-jest refute these charges forged by his own blood?
Train Ride #2 October 30, 1993
Blithee dost the Mitre prance, and gallop to the contradanse, in Merrie comfort sacrosanct, we promenade like elephants!

© hok, 1992, 1993