- Vol. 09
- Chapter 10
A mower, an army backpack, a tub of odds and ends all walk onto a train–
the train is pulling into a station, the train is pulling into a station,
where monthly, people push the things they no longer need onto it
and as the doors open at each station people can put on
their unwanted items, and pick up something that they want, and so on.
And by the end of the day when everyone has taken their pick and dropped off
their trash, the trains filled with the leftover unwanted shit disappear into a tunnel
never to be seen again.
I am thinking of trains in motion pictures which during the Hays code were used
to signify sexual intercourse. I am thinking
of these trains guzzled by tunnels, flowing
into mountains, their metal trammelled
into the fabric of nature, like diamonds back into coals.
Going back home.
Of course their parts never came from that specific mountain,
but deep in mountains far away, and then ferried here,
to transport unwanted items from station to station to find fresh hands.
One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. One woman’s train of thought
is another woman’s shit-for-brains is another woman’s mower-army-back-pack.
I am thinking about the episode of the Simpsons where Lisa teaches
Montgomery Burns about recycling and he creates a colossal net from refurbished six-pack rings to trawl the bottom of the ocean for fish, whales, etc, to make a patented
seafood slurry. Every good impulse connected to a bad one, every choice dragging
every other choice behind it like a huge stone. Damsels on a train track,
a trolley problem requires a trolley solution. Mowers are a vacuum and space
a vacuum and in space no one can hear you virtue signal.
We are walking down the train tracks at night when we see a fox. Your hand clutches
mine. Its fur grey and matted, its eyes glint with a secret knowledge you
and I will come by one day when all the colours eke out. We are walking
down the train tracks at night and out of the tunnel a train comes, it is whistling
but the sound is underwater. We are walking we are walking together
my hand gripping yours like a mower handle, like an army backpack,
our guts jostling like an open tub of bric-a-brac, the hot wind blusters
in our faces, if we are the fish then the train is the net, no, too obvious,
if the train is a fish then we are a basket, we are walking towards the train
together, metaphorically speaking, hands held,
tell me is it good enough.