April 11, 2005
The palmistry of the tracks laid bare for all to see. Like the balance of the yin and yang. The oily, greasy rocks on one side. Cleaner, almost white pebbles on the adjoining side. Cold steel rail pointing the way to its destination. Hot rails to hell, if you believe in that sort of thing. Or a cosmic voyage of click-a-clack, click-a-clack to that heavenly railyard, where the hobos begging for change just might be your Jesus in disguise. Eat these beans for they are my body, and drink this wine which tastes like blood. On Kerouac, Guthrie,et al... To you we tag this fateful journey. Touch the rail as it moves to parts unknown, and you will feel me as I bend down to kiss it, with moist lips. I will center my face to the X that permeates my vision. Never will I fear what blurs my sight as we enter yet another station, another town, another hodgepodge of paper mache existence that only seems to bring the steel wheels to a screeching halt. Two tracks existing as one, like some demented Schrodinger's Track Theory. Which also serves the purpose of coming and going at the same time. Standstill.