They say the train appears
only when the night is deciding
whether to keep its secrets.
It rises through the clouds,
steam curling like old prophecies
that forgot their endings.
The moon watches closely,
amber and patient,
as if it has seen this journey
a thousand times
and still refuses to explain it.
No passengers ride inside.
Only choices~
the ones people almost made,
the ones they feared,
the ones they lost in the noise
of daylight.
The conductor is a quiet figure,
hooded, ageless,
guiding the engine along a track
stitched from cloud-light.
He never speaks,
but every so often
he leans out the window
and drops a single spark
toward the sleeping world below.
If it lands near you,
you wake with a thought
you didn’t have yesterday~
a direction you hadn’t considered,
a door you didn’t know
you were allowed to open.
By dawn, the train dissolves
into the pale sky,
its myth intact,
its work unfinished.
And somewhere,
someone rises from bed
with a new certainty
they swear arrived
from nowhere.
It was a clear beautiful sunny day
Not a cloud in the sky
I was at work in midtown
2001 was the year
It was terrorist near
Uncertainty on every turn
Lessons to learn
Passenger planes being attacking bombers
No suspected as it was like a thrilling action movie
This was real and no act
Downtown NYC was like a war zone
Who would have expected known?
Devastation that took place
Ashes and smoke aftermath waste
Multitudes of people that were running for their lives
It looked like the end of the world
Many died while others survived
The thought of it could have been me
My name could have been on the memorial for all to see
The World Trade Centers stumbled down
It’s an impact me because I was supposed to work on the 96th Floor of Tower One
The company never called because they felt I was overqualified
It was a reject but a blessing that stands out
Again, a blessing for sure and can’t ignore
Heaven gave me extra time to live
Heaven’s grace watched over me
Thankful and uplifted
Never forgot and never will.
I ready my mark
Put my fingers just before the line
On your marks, the referee shouts
A bead of sweat drips down my face
Boiling the skin it touches
Leaving a moist trail behind it
Curls around my chin
Hanging in suspense
But it can't support its own weight
It falls
Falls in slow motion
It hits the track
Instantly evaporated against the track
The blank fires
My legs shoot forward
With each stride, my shoes dig into the rubber
I see the finish line
The lactate hits hard
My breathing is ragged and coarse
I can't give up now
My eyes go black
My brain shuts off
I wake up with rub burns on my face
But I finished first
Victory is mine
Max and Russell
had a tussle
on the trestle
flexing muscle
Tracks were humming
Train was coming
Struggle numbing
Unbecoming!
No need to fear
Don’t shed a tear
they’re still here
raising a beer
Cheers!
The market is run by ghosts,
Who'll never want to share.
Their lived world was for few,
So shall it be for LinkedIn.
No fact. No fiction. No satire.
Yet, LinkedIn dwells all.
All fighting for a need to use hands.
People pretend they best others,
Others do the same,
To some people, it's just a game,
But it will never be offline;
It's always a game online.
I haven't seen when it was simpler,
Yet, I root for us to go back!
I bless Moon for inspiring me.
Hear that whistle scream
On down the wrong track,
A full head of steam
And too late to go back
Know now which way was best
Could have gone south or north,
Could have been east or west
Too late to go back and forth
Not a penny to my name
Not a dime in my purse,
A light at the end never came
And the tunnel made it worse
Time... it never stumbles
And the rail never ends,
Aboard a car that rumbles
Steady around the bends
Get them wheels a' turnin'
Another shovel full of coal,
To get them embers burnin'
And just let that train a' roll.
This poor man's road, for dirt track
Stumbling now on down.
Humility's trite-spoke route!
And nearest semblance.
As dimly, shadily kept.
As meagre; minor.
Whose shafts of light passing through
Hope's rays, hearts of lance.
What blew up, and as soft
For its suggestion
Lady's, shyest, shivery-nerved
Months ago hereon
To set out respond as such now
Pushed, provocative.
Know that lout! The hand thereof!
Autumn. Falls contrive.
Forgot, as dropped out of mind?
No; just left behind.
That fruitful basket's worth of
The sweetly wholesome.
Sized for cherries, cherry-bright
Smilings. None with blight!
Arcadia, ripe with it!
Of a joy-burst lit.
Hung, picked childhood's place, from out.
An o'erflowing sum!
Autumn's lost sight of
In a haze, smoky
Is now, for this venturesome way
Duck's waddled. Croaky.
Ancient men of track and field
asked, "What did our efforts yield?"
"I ran around and then I found
myself back at the start of the track."
"...And I vaulted to the sky, but could not fly,
and fell back to the ground."
Driving is not a sport for the unrehearsed,
practice makes perfect on a speeding track.
The steering wheel is a discus, blunt and capable of slicing/dicing.
A handbrake? A pull-snap-stop bone break.
Electric windows are guillotines; seatbelts are nooses in softer attire.
An Olympian goes for gold; drivers should settle for bronze on a road.
Anyone
can go fast
in the straights
Winners
go fast
— in the turns
(2)
Real racers
race
Everyone else
— just talks
(3)
At the sight
of blood
Your foot
— goes to the floor
(4)
The last lap
may have been finished
But the race
— is never over
(5)
Pit stops ...
the key
to victory
— or defeat
(6)
Trophies
are for cases
Speed
— is for life
(7)
When nothing
is working
— go faster
(Memories Of Ayrton: March, 2026)
I can’t help the impulse to call you
When it’s dazzling sunlight in the morning
Your smiling face beckons me through
The dark days and nights and the yearning
I know that my calls would be missed
You’ve been out of reach for awhile
But the sound of ring like a track unreleased
Starts to play in my worried mind
‘Grisha is calling you’ was what you’ve seen
Sometime ago, when the time
Was on our side, and it really did seem
To keep us safe underline
‘Judy is calling you’, the sign used to appear
Prompting to pick up your call
What have we done to be exiled from here?
I bet that we both can’t recall…
I was going to add a long remix track to a playlist,
A playlist called ‘Waitin For the Bus in the Dark’,
But waitin for the bus in the dark is as tedious as it is -
Making a remix tedious alongside it wouldn’t make sense.
The remix is exciting now -
Anticipating excitement knocking on my eardrums as I wonder how the tune will change.
But next time,
If I play it too soon,
I’ll know.
I’ll just know.
Knowing keeps listening from being curious,
And makes it here we go again.
But “here we go again” are lyrics in an excellent song -
1973 by James Blunt.
Maybe I could add that with the remix to the playlist
And never know which will play first.
Maybe I could add so many songs
That twill be one unmemorable remix
That won’t all play in the time I’m waiting for the bus,
One unmemorable remix that Spotify can shuffle out of order.
The bus I’m waiting for now is too long away
To make it to my trans support group before it ends,
So I’ll make my way home
And bump into an old friend
Who must have started to find me tedious
Or forgotten about me,
Like a song on shuffle that barely plays,
Forgotten how good it is.
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