justwrite 16 june

if my calculations are correct the trains will pass in the night they will be going miles and miles per hour there will be no tunnels the light the sounds will funnel through ears and mouths neither north nor south but away and when the day comes it will turn a different page the stage will rise up and suddenly we will all be on it I thought I’d dawn it differently this time but yours and mine and the rhyming chimes all have their own say these are the lines we will not write and the night will come again pressed in close with no time to waste I am chasing the point and it is far so far away at the end of my sentence but it seems I never get there the exclamation the interrogation the constant declaration eluding each other and also me and too soon to be forgotten the extra dot in the color by numbers which might have been a one or also a zero it’s never clear but only the hero knows the shadow supposes some dark angles and also I have been wondering if we seek out our own tragedies if we make them up and seal them in ziplock bags just to drag along in case of interminable sunshine when everything is fine and there is nothing to complain about no one creates art simply about happiness or at least not fiction even such a world would have to be fictional it might be that a painting or a song can get along alright without even a slight chance of overhanging evil or at least dark clouds but fiction isn’t allowed without conflict and if it is there’s some sort of message it’s that short story the fable with the couple on the train who weren’t a couple before and then they’re getting married he is about to start a job and he is sure to have a career because he has a briefcase they will live happily ever after the story is over and over again I turn to think of the artists themselves with heaping helpings of tragedy and distraction of their own design or something finer like china splintering faces in accidental porcelain I think along the lines of wines of the cheaper variety and chains of cigarettes or other fiendish chemical cocktails drowning drowning in self-annihilation the fascination with destruction so apparent among creators and I am waiting and wondering and when my face turns dark I consider if I am or am not concocting my own dark corner in which to mourn in which to create from which to emerge triumphant where is the thing I will overcome and when will I know that I’ve been stung is it loneliness unleashed or is there some other colder dish waiting to be served or will I turn and look out the window and know that such is not my recipe and would such news be happily received or even much believed