On the train: staring hypnotized at the blackness outside the window, feeling the incomparable rhythmic language of the wheels, clacking out nursery rhymes, summing up moments of the mind like the chant of a broken record: god is dead, god is dead. going, going, going. and the pure bliss of this, the erotic rocking of the coach. France splits open like a ripe fig in the mind; we are raping the land, we are not stopping.

Kiss me and you will see how important I am.

There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.

I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.

I tried to speak in a cool, calm way, but the zombie rose up in my throat and choked me off.

You are the one. Solid the spaces lean on, envious. You are the baby in the barn.

I wanted to crawl in between those black lines of print, the way you crawl through a fence, and go to sleep under that beautiful big green fig-tree.