there is no train to Valdosta.

 

 

 

One moment I am waiting for the train,

the next moment the transatlantic train

tracks me unidentifiable to the Georgia hills.

Venial and forgivable trees avenge

the passing day like

dirty wells that crank up

precious silver.

Thru passing windows I speak to

cows in stenchful pastures,

all similar, rictus,

staring, worrying

about the rialto of

the new stew or their

membership in the blood feud.

Yes, I am talking to

whoever will talk to me,

whoever will carry my

him-she carcass

up the vine-wall.

This man of the thinnest

fabric, cautious

but vengeful,

indelible with a boys veins.

 

 

One moment, with hawks circling my bald head,

after digging all afternoon, as an agent of

words, for the voweless vision;

for the new poems,

for the rake

that scatters stones from

the sweet grass.

The next moment I will be

waited down by

cotton bowls and

the songs of singing

negrows.

And then proving the dirtiest secret,

that daytime is no more

shantung than nightime

and that their

indexation,

the rise and fall of

shirtless men,

is er-go

theoretically eliminated.

 

 

On the large Indianman with painted sails,

treat my aged wounds like the hard

kernals of fluid ink.

Sale my brain in bulk,

not for instruction;

leave me leeward,

thick, cylindrical stalk,

as the tiniest death,

but not yours.

Reviews

[Emily B]

i am always amazed at your travels

[Sel Whiteley]

This is so vivid and graphically drawn.