It is an amazing thing traveling to both coasts and all in-between on the modern rails of the US. I am of course researching the American Superhero Ideal and its apparent demise in today’s culture but along the way I have taken pictures from the train and off it as well of both buildings and landscapes. Here are a few recent samples of just what the country looks like from the window seat. I hope these inspire with beauty and reinvigorate with the knowledge of just how big the USA is.
from the folds of her robe
to spread the bolts
Her hair was the mechanism
in kairosclerosis machines
used to change us
The lachrymology sciences
betrayal, loss, grief, death
held keys to her
The aroma of thunder is smoke
and the backs of swallows
because they purposed
The sky turns sheets to hide from all the gray.
Yet ruin permeates the bouquet
because ions agonize
trees in electric
Iron fists and river homes quake.
Across the blackened wastelands that used to be her insatiable appetites, she felt the resistance once again – that urge to use the hammer on his rear cranium. When she remembered the pain it comforted her but it didn’t ease the sensations.
His back was turned.
Hunching down in front of the window crying like he was, it was fascinating to watch the wounded heart on his sleeve.
That was where he always wore it, Acacia Dale Dalton-Gualt thought bitterly – though she mistook it in herself for compassion.
She handed him the hand she the fist had visited moments ago and helped him up instead. He was an emotional cauldron of artistic genius and brutal tsunamis so she was irresistibly drawn as you would imagine.
The emotional feedback and the mental stimulus were like a dirty, deviant, exploratory surgery in a sex dance buried under her scalp; just the idea of putting him back together made her heart race and her southern inspirations wet.
Montreaux Gualt was the premiere artistic force in the universe and like all such forces it was breaking hot and fast – in the process eating its vessel at an uncontrollable rate.
She was going to dance in the wind on the beach the next time his genius created the next big thing in sculpture/paint hybrid art or apocalypse poems or ammunition essays. She was going to impersonate the muse and hope to go unnoticed. She was so smitten she knew soon she would have to break him herself. Because she loved him.
And he could only love the storm.
Deprived of assertions by my own mediocre dreams of vanity, I wake amongst the damned and walk amongst among the dead. They both look like alabaster and fire only without the heat.
No amount of numbing can make me feel. No amount of feeling grants numbness.
But as I lift my eyes from the decay between my eyes and my heart, I clearly see you with your shame halos and your hungover regret. Maybe this will be a better excuse for tonight’s excess. Maybe tonight you will have the reason you seek to lose all control again. Maybe this time you will alienate them all for the last time.
Or maybe today I will tell you that the hurt runs too deep to find light after the morning comes. For both of us.
The hot wet embrace of your holster around my empty gun leaves a chill in my head I can’t decipher. It is as if the leather chafes the steel like my will against your disdain for me this morning. And the lead gets heavier.
So much is coming and the path of trains and collisions pales to the coming storm that will pull us apart by pulling us down. Soon the hole will fill itself with us instead of us filling the holes with each other.
I am tired of holes. Yours, mine and the universe’s. All the dancing weakens me where it matters. Just above the spots with the scars.