There are so many ways to go. But bullets,
darling, make the best departures. Watch their
tracks. They go at all hours, zooming by.
Who knows where they end up?
Or when? They can get ahead of you
if you’re careful in your aim.
Here’s the schedule, shined and silvered.
It fits right in among the pennies, the half-used
wedding rings, the shell-shocked batteries.
The conductors offers to punch our tickets.
Adultery, he says, is lovely this time of year.
I tell him it’s my first time here. But not
yours. The conductor doffs his cap to show
the scar at his temple, and says
Hope you come back again real soon.
I want to ask him how long he’s been here.
How he knows when it’s time to leave.
Two natives step across the aisle. I long
for their ease of language, their understanding
of how to touch at the moment just before
the train lurches from the tracks.
You’re pulling my sleeve like a child.
I need a full-flavor cigarette.
A final meal.
A black silk blindfold.
A firing squad with perfect aim.
Image taken on the bed with my MacBook Air.
Words written in my brain while I walked.
Time Taken 10 minutes?
Brain on tonight’s reading for the Disability Art and Culture Project, homemade pizza, joy.