 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
A crowd of foam is rushing toward the beach The snake and steel tree beams are harmless with the weight of tons of floors and books and tile... It's like Spring! from day to day... At a certain point, closer to the millenia hysteria I expect more past images to crystalize, like a ceramic halo over the me of great years before and after... Life and lives are rising in frames... I would like to airbrush smiles, half-eaten swirl lollipops and glow neclaces onto all of the cast... This is animation!  Flowers trumpet out of their eyes, they're smiling a fire siren is going off They are cranking a home-made red metal siren It looks like it is made from an old fuse box and a coffee can It still smells like fresh spray paint Two Rastafarians in a white wood and wicker gazeebo have a smaller metal siren attached to a long orange extension cord Small black bats spiral down miniature tin funnels disappearing into their Rasta eyes watching the sirens move in tropical stereo ionic like just before a storm. The ash gray clouds hover close like flat cotton over our wet waking jewel heads. People moving toward the train stop slowly, their heads are swirled with different colors of blown glass. This scene spins into a recently discovered hollow moon rock. The rock has a small metallic air vent attached to the outside. the narrow paved strip by the tracks. There is a white man in his fifties standing to my left, his face is drawn and pockmarked. He is reading a gun magazine. The walkie talkie on his wide brown leather belt has been squawking every minute or so. He slowly rolls his thick nailed thumb across one of its controls while continuing to read. An elderly woman who had been waiting in the doorway of an apartment across the street is making her way towards the stop, then I hear the subtle, distant chugging squeal of the train winding down the tracks from its last stop. The old woman is wearing an American flag skullcap and a worn melon green dress from '73. She looks like a shorter, beardless Abe Lincoln in drag. She has a permanent smile. The four people waiting farther down for the rear two cars start to make their way towards the front. The green and gray train moves slowly to a stop. The front doors make a hydraulic squirt/ dry whistle sound as they fold up, apart and firmly press to the sides of the entrance. I can't see the driver as I run my pass through the machine beside him. He has a green canvas curtain pulled almost all the way. I find a single seat, the middle of three to my left. "Blanford", came the drivers voice as it seemed to pour out soothingly in multi stereo. He has the voice of the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz. Breathy. Hypnotic. The train begins to pull slowly toward the next stop. As the stops go by I am losing track of where I am along my morning commute into Boston. My mind starts drifting to the book I'm reading on trepanation and shadow cats flashing in a bell tower. Dragon parade and flame throwers. Horses with lantern heads... I am reeling still from the alpha state. Things seem dreamy and scattered with a sacred ash. and closer with each stop. The train pulls from its last above ground stop into the slow dip of the tunnel. I look to my left at the driver, blink, then pull the curtain open. I am suprised not to find a person wearing cheap sunglasses flipping switches. Instead there is just this steel pole coming out of the seat with a thimble like 'head' on top. Very much like a Tin Man prototype or something. It has two pieces of copper wire where a mouth should be. The thimble head turns toward me slowly, its mouth wires vibrating as it says, "Good day, now." Its head is full of spinning, scorching copper wire, swarming with acrid blue sparks. | ||
