The comfort of tunneling trains
can obliterate my half-baked
medium-rare version of pain
that loves the smell of mold
and urine as they moisten my
bloom and extinguish the purpose
of my intention while the
Latino hieroglyphics roll by
filling my eyes with a
contempt for what I don't understand.
I want them to stop.
Stop sending messages
I can't decode.
Organized fractions, neat
like mama made me do
when she split my shoulder blades
with her desire for cliche memories.
I prefer the moist, stale air of
the tunnels to brutal nostalgia.
Ongoing infractions on platform D
are a welcome anesthetic to
the churning disobedience
of city night rituals that will me toward
the great offensive void unprepared.
Thrilled to know emptiness, this
passenger improvised spools of
gospel for homeward bound saints
blessing tunnel after tunnel
of anonymous survivors
toward inevitable resurrection
and the sudden haunting
expectation
of light..