like a tapioca glob
		-----------------------------------------------------------

		a train is a kind of anaconda
		it is a huge serpent and an even larger sperm
		it brings life to an egg that is its terminus

		a sleeked glob of tapioca pudding (we are the oka)

		a good train is loud elfin laughing
		a witchy smithy clanky chanting as if by carlos santana
		if there had ever been invented an axe called
		a railroad guitar...

		a trip and a half in a train is a trance

		the romance of a train trip
		even the paltry new jersey transit bit
		wisks the landscapes the towns the pines
		into well-beaten egg whites
		and the asian girls with backpacks on get on
		to washington square?  to brooklyn?

		entrain a fantasy of shagging the shaggy-haired sleepy
		blonde entrained with holey jean knees with pristinely
		white knees.  Surely not white plains?  katona? 
		christopher street?

		my trains were entirely too long and too short of it.
		uncomforable and miserble and so have i at times become
		yet i disdain nothing.  i walk away in need.
		i often think of trains -- like robyn.

		in schenectady in albany when slinking slowly past troy
		deserted in cleveland lampooned by the curvilinear
		skyline of rochester

		the name of the rain rivuleted -- plink --
		inside.  beneath my own train window and.  flooded.
		microcosmically.  roared like a river.  like a train.
		like a tapioca glob.


			Marek Lugowski
			14 May 1997
			Chicago, Illinois