November

The last we spoke

I sang of end times

Of cities washed away

The bloodless halls

A flooded station

And that last train from LA

Well, three years have passed

And here I am in the waiting room

Delayed with all the restless

Some sixty eyes fixed hard and fast

On the TV playing something senseless

Me, I dream of a broken watch

With hands like vines

N the dream, I see the

The sweep of centuries

I am a priest or a bird

And high wandered six lane

It would be generous to call them boulevards

With their dead-eyed metal herd

I have come to peck the faces

All of the faces off of every clock

Then set myself to ponder the golden shores

The clouds, the rotting dock

Can you hear the carnival rising?

The brutal fairgrounds aglow

Sunburned families laughing at the toy gun game store

Someone screaming below

And I want to tell you

About November

The people that I met

And sleeping badly

On poor man pallets

A blue blanket caked in sweat

Cardiogram power lines

Heart of the Department of the Interior

Glow-in-the-dark Casio breathing faster

The last we spoke

I sang of end times

Of cities washed away

The bloodless halls

A flooded station

Could a train be an escape?