When the Human Engine Waits.

When the Human Engine Waits

by james bezerra

Know this, yes I’m restless.

Don’t – as some do

- find vice in it. It’s just an endless fuse

long ago lit.

Best of times. Worst times, all times, all trains,

all roads; leading nowhere. In a hurry. That’s

the joke. The rub. Dry rub. Secret herbs and

spices. Hamlet was talking about meat.

Last call! For a train, for a bar, for a lover; always

a warning. Always a part of you apart,

always a part warring with –

or warming to – that next one-last-drink, that next station platform,

that next exhalation of cumming so raspy, such rhapsody, so

heavy that breath so breathless.

Yes, yes I’m restless, but

It’s only anti-acquiescence.

Rage, rage against these angel-headed omnivores in

these woods, whose are they? Google knows.

And so it goes. Stay gold. Stay gold Ponyboy. Don’t

ever grow old, don’t ever

go gray.

Don’t ever wear white after Labor

Day.

Or before? Fuck,

I can never remember. Not to forget. I

forget most things I never meant

to not forget.

  

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