Chugga Chugga

after eating the stranded syntax of prose poetry like spaghetti, i think of a man who left his wife and child to ride trains across the nation. through thick glass he witnesses the crime of kmarts in meadows, wonders how rich eden might have been before its identity was stolen. when his eyelids fall heavy, beautiful french films play themselves on the endless reels of dreams. that same year, i told myself, slow learners see more beauty, trying to fill a deep-seated emptiness with the comforting clang of those jointed words. the rhythm of things passing, hitched together, tugging forward, impartially abandoning both the heavens and hells of this land.