Wednesday 3 August 2011

loco - motion

With the passing of trains half of nights through oakland, i often stop what i am doing and catch the fresh wave of memories that extend past this life, back i believe. Dare say. Stop my dreaming and wake to it. Stop my typing and rise to the occasion. Stop my tv, my radio, my dual core thoughts spinnin round and round at a feverish pace like Ratt blowin out the rafters at some warfield or nondescript american music hall somewhere in Jersey, any year any day any time for any reason so long as theres hairspray, tights, a wall of sound and hair   -- bienvenidos baby!

Yes I wake to this rare and clearly audible across the sleeping city streets straight to my heart, my spirit, my affect lit up like a candle and soon after maybe self-drawn down and out with taper of wax rope into a calm silent predawn meditation like never before. Only to come again like a sudden shift of energy like a buckshot to the booty to spike the adrenaline and imbalance my mood. Taken to the heights for some reason, I dont know why. I guess its past life love affairs i cannot and will never have the will to deny.

Yes I catch the deep whistle two am oakland. The antiquated rail travel carry the heavy of lumbering train cars, to where the weight of past life memory coincide.. a brand new light revealed out of thin air. A push of electricity every damn time i swear! True love. I can feel it. A cottoncandy kinda recollection falls with me sweet even into bedsheets. Mothers milk if i ever knew it. Takes out my feet, levels my head. Out of whatever OCD kinda track i was on to some fly switched track back to some old fashioned mix, to some fantastic retrograde recollect callin me like pay phone street sound lonely ringin for the desperate connect back in the old town, east coast.

I gotta talk about the real steel for a second, gotta stop and pay mind to the channel of the divine. he real industrial hydraulic momentum generation of all my past life memory i miss you beautiful trains back then were bold steel and smoke and looking glasses. Leather upholstered genuine rawhide seats. Satin embroidered pillows. Velvet curtains to transition dining cars from smoking cars from sleeping cars. Needlepoint welcome mats as you step aboard. Opaque linens to offer light into redwood carved chamber anterooms falling discreetly off the main oakwood supported halls driving sleek lines from caboose through locomotive machinations to the coalfires stoked by attendants with metal rake and shovels with halfmoon sharpened edges diving into the living maelstrom dripping black charsmoke over the countentance of prebellum Europe, Asia, Soviet Union stretched out in rails pushed into place by hard laboring peasant and cossack farmers with hearts simple aligned with love of country? Ya? I dont know where it comes from but i have had these scenes fresh on my tongue, since i was young.

Piston pull, arms juiced every morning into some woven experiment toward heavy metal, interconnection. Or the hard laboring chain gangs who involuntarily paved the transamerican continental railway...really a poor copy of the sister railways of other great countries, the transsiberian. Even Canada showed her teeth, carving through cold winter granite to expose to the world that she would not be stopped so easily, no not at all. not at all.

Yes...see i dream of working on, traveling in, witnessing from, feeling of the past lives in me who may have bought the ticket to ride. Instead i get the stale substitute of Amtrak, which is like a plane or two dropped out, not so light, not so clean, robbed of pure wood and steel amenities shining, muffled the sound of clack-a-clack, domesticated from what i feel from those days i no longer carry thoughts or memories except in my senses deep, my breathe, my way of moving in and out of space, the wandering of my eyes to rest on USA, gone west of west...

Still i love her! goddamn fuck, i love the motive, makes me loco, stops me still! Like the deadening of panic post the trek up some nondescript citys pill hill.  Drops me down by any other american windowsill. Nondescript all around me, even my own flesh might cut out on some nail cause at those times the heart goes, the mind travels, the spirit flies and the rest playin catch up! My friends had trains pass through their backyard Richmond, and every time i heard that  shit --- hey! check me burstin' with the best moves i can make to dodge and dart out there and hop the broken down fence and then push up like the mosh pit of gen x days full pressin' toward nirvana, nondescript.

Hey all goes ghost! All get out all get out and go! to see her, hear her, anything and all so sensual and reverberating across the gps of my whole soul!

The train she got my heart, man.
Time? Fuck time. I got all the patience in the world for a long enduring train ride, the nondescript people you meet. The meeting i have with my nondescript self, in nondescript towns that harbor trains in strangeways you never been. Beats never been. Kerouac never been. Burroughs never been. Break out the gin nondescript for a nondescript sit for a spell. While others take in the local produce, fruit swill, the local smiles of those thankful to have a job, even so small as to polish someones shoes. The fresh orange juice with pulp stirred automatically by the motion with your nondescript vodka driving screws into a fixed witness of agape landscapes post sunset in middle some country. Hell son, you and me both be stoking the fires of our contemplative nondescript period blues.

 they chose me, crazy loco self thats me, steel and smoke and looking glass-eyed-sigh of self, that wisp of me who crosses you not, yet opacity full and driven west against the jetstream like a waterfall come up against a scream, moulded and melting into the love of haunted hitchcock night trains, soldier story told certainties of death... certainties of rebirth and hell shine up the silver faucet fetch above the rubber fitted catch, caught in a siberian dream of aquamarine fluid stream into river into greater embrace of oceanic magnificence... like the transcanadian transition into endless pine forest greenness. End of all apocryphal bred of searching insecurities kind of self-ignorance...trasmutation back to your youth and anyone who pays attention to the lands flying by in patchwork sky...will see....themselves, their people, their purpose, high steeple, deep well, poor people of the life of the land do tell. Do tell.. Do tell.

Cause right now i know this room, this home among homes, this road among streets, town among cities...this life among lives before and before us also...needs to listen to your simple story again. These television people. These fearful sons daughters parents grandparents through time. Fabric of lives by chaotic design. Do tell, in the fury of midnight passage descent into ravines never heard no other industrial sounds other than, trains whistle blow. dry and pristine.

The slow trains are ghostly, the many cars as they pass over terrain passed over an infinite time, infinite times uncounted. Temporal aberration. Perhaps circular as well, spiral shaped. Not unlike the nondescript fried dough. This year (like the nondescript last) she blew me over like a sweet evening seabreeze. all of her energy blew over me so, she blew me over. i felt blessed and kissed by the sweet touch moist air down there. where i fell. in that nondescript small patch of earthen compression.

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