Tuesday, May 1, 2007

boxcars (revised)

this is a different type of story.
neither a beginning nor an end it’s the story of boy and girl,
how they left life to wander among the boxcars.
silent but graceful, with matured faces
but the body of children grown too
soon and rushed into something
they cannot care for.
they are boy and girl sitting on the boxcar,
engaged in their first movement.

this is a different type of story.
better explained through words because
voices cannot keep it,
will not say it.
so they run up and down the train
tracks chasing chaotic dreams.
screaming high, higher and higher;
you live for me and i’ll live for you,
and one day the passing trains will collide.
in a brilliant display of death and desire,
we will make our vows within its fire.
you live for me and i’ll live for you,
and one day the passing trains will collide.
in a brilliant display of death and desire,
we will make our vows within its fire.

a different type of story.
sunsets from the boxcars were bittersweet.
a melody playing from the carnival across a dead field
of scarecrows speared onto their hollow poles.
waving while the wind weaves between their ears,
cursing all that real, all that is now,
lamenting for the tragedies sitting on the boxcars
hopeless wishing to wail away the scars.

who tells this tale?
the angels on duty perch upon the crossing signs.
they take away bits a pieces of the story and drop them
into each. different. boxcar.
sleeping in all their rusted glory,
motionless on the tracks.
the piter pater piter pater of the children's
footfalls the rhythm.
the lyrics the accusations, frustrations, accusations, frustrations,
exit plans.

there is a man who comes to clean the ruins,
a man who cares for the boxcars.
gently sweeping each one with a broom,
swirling the dust about his head and
laughing all the while. in car
seven he was surprised to find
it strewn with glass and smelling of promise,
the walls thick with a soft pink paint. the
word broken repeatedly written in rough
strokes, shaped in three fourth of a heart.
there is no road out.
no train, this station is emptier than heaven,
colder than hell.
he never thought she could be saved in three words.
eight letter he ought not think.
three syllables she’s searched for in every boxcar.

there is one dream,
one ending that the young girl anticipates.

this is a story that cannot be told completely.
it must be told in lies so that you cannot see the truth blazing
behind her eyes.
in the cold hands she keeps shoved in her pocket while they wait.
wait for a train to pull into the station, for the
boxcars to pick themselves up
and move. for the man to clean the paint before it dries
and stains the rusty wall for years
until they finally collapse
in a loud, old, heap.
it’s said that talk is cheap;
so he promises nothing.

today was different.
locomotive number 9 has pulled into the station.
fallen out of heaven,
dear god was that kind.
but this was not what the boy and girl asked for,
and now they are out of time.
so the train pulled out with the boy in tow,
the girl turned and moaned for the days
they’d never know.
shaking slowly she walked towards
the boxcars in the drunk morning light.

in the field the scarecrows doubled over
one by one,
hiding their faces from the sight.

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