Wound — Elan Mudrow Photography

North Head Lighthouse, Washington State

via Wound — Elan Mudrow Photography



Who is the ghost that walks the train?

The apparition tugs on our shirt sleeves

But all rides are displaced

We are logged into otherness,

Password protected

Our faces dug deep into ourselves

Reflections fed to us

Wires from out our ears

Wi-Fi, stuck in our gut

Download speeds of the central nervous system.

Our spines reverberate myriads of chatter.

A silent rustle, instilling itself

Convincing us without us ever knowing

How important we are compared to

All other representations of knowing

While we are in the midst of knowing.

It’s called automatic updates


The train moves automatically

We are in a moving bubble…..and

From the windows see sprawl

Hurling past us………………tame trees

Surly lawns, hybrid bushes

Dotted between office buildings

Who give out loans, advice, and massages,

Fast food made to look like good food

Good food made to look like fast food

We look to make it home, safe

To pass through concrete stops embedded

With glitter and tactile paving

Ghost, ghouls, and the sleepless.

All stops are washed down, nightly

To make sure everything is clean


We wait for our stop, or stops

Trapped in by the prerecorded

Professional voicings of destinations

Which are never really stops

Just representations of stops.

Glued to our world, the rails

We read in glorious fonts….about

Long-gone idiots and fools, ghosts.

We are fascinated

about the sky

How its falling

Why its falling

Why it should fall

What we should do when it falls

If it didn’t fall

There wouldn’t reason.


For us to be living it up



We could ride forever like this

We will ride forever like this

On this train that gets us to work

Takes us back home again

Between murders and wars

Youtube and hookup sites

These things that record us

Splinter meaning into twos

until all movement becomes reaction

To representations (ghosts) of

The electricity that sings about

Who we think we are