Train’s coming whistling through the industries of this machine-kind. 

The ceramic platform…the vendors, the station of an isolated artist…

I see a grass mower, taking rage and insanity out of these fields…taking the shine of the art. 

I have to take this train and go miles before everything gets chopped into shapes. 

My home is over that blurred mountain…where rain comes like blue whiskey and thunderstorms like a pile of white smokes…

I am going, I am going…I have to go, 

I am going. 

My poetries need me to get out of these animals of dreaming mortality, 

my words need immortals…my words need unfinished flows of skins and waves of a woman’s breasts…

She is there…

I am going. 

Let the train crush all the steel rails and take me in it’s vertical motion.

…………………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Matthew Malkiewicz. 

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