Quicksilver

(an Ode to trains)

Sometimes
the fastest one can go
is on a train.

The Futurists' own
silver paint on silver walls.
Silver appalls, but
swimming over me

with stolid pee
and factory run-off
in a ditch

beside the main tracks,
vindicated me.

the Slowdown

We won't drown.
That recession

is part of normal market growth
is wrong.

Every five, six years
it's that appalling.

Who is really seeing things?
It brings
with it higher food prices.
I'm into gluttony.

A mint—though—
only a small one.
A fiscal travesty.
Fiduciary.


I'm really so
sorry for you losses,
processes
and progress.

We can move together through
Slow by slow. Toe
to toe. Our total
effacement

both financial (our bank accounts)
or emotional (our bank accounts)
raise scorn.

The field of wheat and hops ablaze.

When I was 35

The children
are with Liz
The quiet yard is me.

Cold beer sans
hammock when
a bunny,

brown,
little, from
a shrubbery comes out.

Little girl's
got something to say to me.

Dog doesn't like it.
Shut up dog.


She stays,
as if she's bored or something.
I have another beer
day withers.

The starfield
superimposed on you.
—a blanket over
your shiny wet eyes.

I can hear
the gulls far off, flying.

The starfield's me.
Cars outside, cars
on the driveway.

The dog's inside.
"Sounds, move away from me!"


Liz phones
from the road.
She asks me; "Are we out of things?"
I'm not sure.

I say "Mom called
this morning."

She'll say; "I know
she just called me."

I go outside, I
bring the computer,
I set it in the grass
I look around.

No bunny.
Camden, from the screen door
hollers
tepidly.

Shut up dog.
I get a text
from Cy,
he's upstairs.