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.
fie! dost the screaming beggar dare
raise resentment against fair judgment?
Does he turn, bearing teeth,
yellow against the stale breath of
and in unknowing-jest refute
these charges forged by his own
Train Ride #2
October 30, 1993
Blithee dost the Mitre prance,
and gallop to the contradanse,
in Merrie comfort sacrosanct,
we promenade like elephants!