Eleven Cars on This One

Eleven Cars on This One

19990222.1715

A red miasma hides my feet
And pant legs, soaking, grip my calves
A tendril-viper scales my thighs
And chills climb up my back from there

I follow, walking through the gate
Towards the turnstile, now with blades
To hack and chop the walking meat
That trudges through in front of me

I shake my head. The vision fades
But only from my conscious thought
I start to think the morning train
Commute could use a little joy

For that concern, what of my end?
That is to say, where I get off?
The lack of eagerness is part
And parcel of my mental state

This morning I was being held
But in a pleasant way enough
Until I woke. And that is where
The morning starts the downward slide

My lover isn't where I work
She's never anywhere, in fact
Except projected on the screen
That billows now behind my eyes

It's been put forth that I'm depressed
But I would not agree, I think
And nor would she, for when we meet
I'm full of cheer and fairly bright

Except it really sucks, the fact
I cannot feel her touch -- except
For one brief moment right before
My waking mind comes back to me

I think I met her once in life
It's hard to tell. She's changed so much
Since when her hand brushed mine, but that
Was long ago. Another train.

Pathetic, isn't it? I say
Just shoot me. Greatness never comes
To those who sleep their dreams away
Instead of live them. Live them! Live!

But if you're out there, keen-eyed girl
With tender smile and careless hand
I'd thank you if you were to call
And maybe give me back my watch

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