Wednesday, February 19, 2014

5087. WHAT MAKES ME REGISTER, HEAT

WHAT MAKES ME REGISTER, HEAT
Too early for long, the slim train decidedly runs slowly in
the cold of the dark night air : two conductor women, black
girls, large heads of dreadlocks under that conductor cap and
all in blue, walk together through a nearly-empty car. In silence
I swear they're twins  -  sisters as one, proud and tough. To click
a ticket can't be a life's work, but this is a moment worth dredging.
-
I want for more : sitting back in an otherwise empty car, like
a ride on my own coach-car, I imagine Andrew Carnegie, 
channeled here, and I spit in his spittoon. In silence of course, 
no splash; the girls would notice, or little note. Not sure. 
How to connect? And what does a 'conductor' do, after all, 
but ride harsh on 'conduct' becoming? 
I relax a bit, and just ride on.
-
Let me take this comic coal-book backwards 'round the bend
beyond the glen. There's really nothing happening, and this is
fairy-land : in an archeology of the mind there are bodies
that matter, and others, I suppose, that don't. The dead-shell
cavalry yarn is mine. 'Wash me in the water that you wash
your dirty daughter; and I shall be whiter than the
whitewash on the wall.' I remember what I said, a
soldier's song now, from the Great War of 1914.

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