Shout

Eyes over here,
on the inky horizon-
turn your head to the sound of-
to the sound of- crumpling metal
like it was aluminum in his disfigured hands
and the beer gold and cool bending in the sunlight,
drips like rain falling like blankets
onto the crisp golden grass,
grass wet with dew and the night,
noctornal ash borrowed
in the rusted creases of funeral pyre radiators,

BAAAAAAHHHH-AAAUUUUHHH
the train's whistle questions,
BAAAAAAAAAHHH-AAAUUUHHHH
"where?'" "where are we headed? Where have we been?"
"just where?"-
"Where is anything?"...but the tracks and forward-
but the race-

transforms the fumbling dawn into the insides of an oil drum
beaten with a baseball bat,
spattering our brains like an obstruction
before the cow catcher,
where it gets to bellowing,
layered over sounds of hands scrapping together,
searching for warmth and a place to rest
now that history has
run us all off the road,
paved, cracked, and cragged,
the road
that becomes a point in the distance
becomes it and resembles it and forcefully gives to birth to that-
that question the train meant to ask-

pushing it's memory back a ways
along those tracks by the cornfield wasteland
where we can never again find it-

shouting.