Train Problem

I have cracked the nut of death and spilled its meat from the shell. It was simple really, like most problems when you see the answer. You see, I was riding the other day, rocking away in the only cradle designed for babes out of arms. Half dozing, half cats-cradling, and three quarters thumb-twiddling when it came to me; they told us to meditate on speed and distance, clocks and schedules and other improbables that only further prove that maths are a clownish science and not the provenance of travelers. But if we turned things inside out (like an orange) and I was riding time instead of it riding me (like a string-pulling doll), every stop would be another hereafter. Each Cottage/grove/forest/town/shady/village its own kingdom of heaven and hippie commune. All are equals in immobility, I thought and felt a goose walk over my grave or maybe it was a six-legged metaphor. We're on schedule for infinity, baby, and on this route the whistle stops are without number.

cattle and loveplay

Call for me and I will tell you what I have learned, that we make an addiction of time and memory, eating and idleness. That chestnut leaves drape like the hands of effete gentlemen in the moments of their unfurling.

These are the days of softness and indolence. These are the days of rags and witches and ribbon covered flails. A candy-marshmallow-churning-bicycle whipped its way through the night forest. There are bells on the handlebars and I can hear it singing Shakespeare when it rumbles by.