With its cul de sac timelines
And magnetized tracks,
You can build upon its stories,
Add more sugar, pour some cream,
But still it seems to lurch with engines
Unequal to your dreams,
Which aren't really even dreams at all,
Just thoughts of how things are,
From the same electric streams
All the creatures travel down
That this dumb, insensate world
Won't even say are impossible
-- There's something missing from its soul,
The branches move but the mind won't budge,
In fear that Colin Farrell, say,
Might be seen to play the role
Of J. Depp in Murder on the Orient Express,
Which is now about the Lindbergh baby,
Who has now been unalterably killed ...
Such dangerous games they play
With the plot lines,
To test what we may remember,
To deny us the fruits of thought,
As if our spirits could be stopped cold
By being ignored.
But they can't prevent the facts
From turning archetype,
Where they cede to deeper meanings
In the time that we call sleep,
To shadow us through daylight
Like a premonition of home,
And even the spotlight sun
On the radiant wall of faces
Must break for intermission,
Where in the stillness crickets tone
The stage of grass to nothingness.
