(for the ghosts of Cesar Vallejo, Blaise Cendrars, & Eugenio Montale)
A man gets on a train named after a saint or small exclusive animal and,
aware of the many upheavals and dangers that lie along the straight line
imagined as commencing from his eyes, circling the globe eastward
and coming to rest upon the back of his skull, defers to his choice
of this longest route, not knowing whether it truly serves every purpose
he can devise but loath to reexamine the stages of his burn-out.
Witness to one too many panic attacks behind the Nino de Ayacucho filling station, the dreary symbols of decline and ruination splattered on the wall for all to read.
And witness (hostile, accidental) to the pigeon-white eucharist
delayed as if by trickery above the row of opened winsome mouths,
murmur rising to the threat of prayer.
There was
no one
curious enough
to ask him
what he
was leaving
behind.
The bells that roared like wounded lions and sang to him the name of their city;
the trap of its virtuous forests, the constant gossip of its lakes and rivers,
the stars in their shivery night-jackets, queuing at the widow’s windows
to beg for a nostalgic striptease once the tears were dry.
He would substitute the moon for the sun;
he would substitute an infant squabbling with her stuffed bear’s bow for an old dead king;
he would substitute a language he spoke for one he could not even hear.
His journey is or isn’t flight, his disappearance can be read as mercy,
the stones he hasn’t yet hammered and labeled, the flowers he hasn’t yet picked
and pressed between the pages of a book he may or may not be carrying with him, the approaching decision to sit alone and apart or insinuate himself
among the lonely crowd, discovering his aptitude for disposable skills
he never imagined needing. The departure gate had mouthed its mongoloid goodbye,
there was just enough time for hammy drama, the out of sorts philosophizing
of a censuring ghost.
The city
brushed back
its hair
of flickering
lights
and turned
majestically
away.
Is the
catch
in his
breath,
the lump
in his throat
the last
for a
long long time?
What, besides the season, the final minutes before the sun weakens and slows away, the metallic particles misting above the southern industrial parks,
could cause the rosy vaseline haze that slides the world out of focus?
Words that he has chosen to purge from his vocabulary will smolder for awhile, then scar and fade.
The train will cross the flat plain till sunset, will begin to climb just as darkness settles over a world finally worth looking at.
He is
prepared
to sleep
through ordeal,
to miss
the fabulous
through inattention.
He has trained for this and travels with papers proving citizenship
without responsibility, pain without resentment, an alibi so laughable
that it cannot help but be believed, that he no longer has the energy
to lift a finger as help or harm. He has no patience left for pretence.
That he detests the details others hang their hats on.
That he admires the drillers at the rockface. His fly on the wall is bored beyond belief, passion now the lemon ring of age
made by the tea cup in the condemned hacienda.
The eyes of hard provincials will mean nothing to him, the things they love
can be written on a sheet of paper and erased.
A disco drum
crawls along
the tracks
behind the
train.
Plastic Incan prayer-flags whip the panes, smear the condensation from rosary
to random wash.
He reads
into it
the cold
finger of
God.
He asks for a black coffee from the canteen girl with the trapeze artist’s hips
and the salacious rose-red smile, while the mirthless deity powders
snowflake mysteries from Ur to the padlocked gates of Eden.
Was it enough to blow out the candles and make the perfect wish? Hope shone in a stranger’s hand, like the medallion ripped from a child’s neck. There were no boxes left to check, every pawn had staggered to its queenly end, clothes-lined by a buttery rook, cold-cocked by a bloody-eyed bishop,
fat white king rocking jolly on his selfish square. At midnight or an hour after, the train will arrive at the top of the mountains and, depending on the wind, he should be able to hear the hiss and strain
where the sky has been punctured.
The matchbook
says tigers
hide nearby.
The guidebook
says disembarking
is allowed
but not encouraged.
Souls can exit through the hole in the sky, the quick gold sun will never
catch up to them in time.
The endless search for images must one day end.
And something will give out, and loose ends, dangling, like a rope bridge
rotted through, will sprawl the air and flap and settle and be left
with no intent of resurrection. And something here has given out and all been left behind,
a lightweight, traveling bag of bones and mannerisms the one surviving element. And even this sees or senses its end and abandonment, moving steadily
down the unbolted line so as to meet somewhere short of final destination. Heartache’s indignity has been mostly spared, with no energy remaining
for the gestures of gratitude and dismissal. Already he thinks in shapes he has only experienced through pictures. He empties the old colors so there will be room for the new ones.
He has
not been
gone for
very long.
It will be
much longer
before his
absence is noted.
The air in the train is filled with dust and sand and through the windows
the clouds bulge like melons, fat with rain.
A
simple
no.
The rest is what was always settled for.
The gist of life, the trace of ghosts, the endless hurt, the pleasure of the softest lie,
as mind blinks twice, curls back to sleep.
Look quickly, or not at all.
Repent
for
nothing.
Let the cut names flutter free as confetti.
Repent
for
nothing.
Rain will keep the empty places clean.
Repent
for all
or nothing.