Atonal Amtrack
This will put you off of it.
Mired for days, like a sugar
plum in hell with diarrhea and
the croup. A man can dream,
can’t he? I say whoa to this no,
the fan blades whirring for their
1,000th consecutive day. Maybe
a memory will help when all is else
sheer swill. I pull the wool over my
peepers and I’m on a train heading
south to NYC. Gliding past a gas
station in CT some kid filling an SUV
under a mosquito’d halo lit by a halo
gen moon sees me wave, waves back.
