Poem: The Train to Unattainia

The Train to Unattainia

I inhabit the spaces between the walls

after the flip of the switch but before

the dark of the bulb

I am a ruthless cowboy semicolon

forever inserting myself into conversations

funny how it always seems to cause

a pause

riding the hum of the intermission crowd like a

sailor, tying silk scarves around

each of their slow-nodding heads and

running

the rise of the curtain my only ticket in.

The only breath I take (breathe)

comes on the twentieth mile (breathe)

of a thousand-mile drive

when I know that turning around is no longer an option

the early morning sun blowing through the vents like

powdered sugar

I go to the land where nothing can be had

running down a long hard ribbon of willful disconnnection

a lack of direction so palpable you could

cut it with a compass

The needle winds its way in and out of the continental fabric

pulling me along to places like Cheyenne, Wyoming

where my siren, Improvisia

stands upright on the green edge of a sidewalk

blowing smoke into a renegade sun

In one hand she holds a book of songs

in the other a bucket of blue paint

dips the one in the other till the

color bleeds out the notes

She hands it to me with an Andalusian smile and says

Here, it’s the one you asked for

open it up and

sing, baby, sing

First printed in Austin International Poetry Festival Anthology

(Second Prize)

From the collection Great Showtunes of the American Stage  

Photo by MJV