Tuesday, October 26, 2010


The beginning is
2.5 hours richer,
28 dollars poor and sunk
into this white hot ship,
coated in semi-carpet
plastic inside
motionless intestine vomit,
miles of it, enough to paint
the east coast from Boston to Richmond
stagnant and stinking,
if you choose to,

don't bother with the smiley-face bag clinging
all static electricity to your leg,
or you neighbors,
it's twisted infinitely
and only thin enough
to carry the smell,
that smell that wakes you up
screaming sweat
falling from the Girard Point Bridge
salting the river fish below,

But then again you'll get on dutifully
because its going--

and you're going too,
and you've got no place to go.

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