The Dead Bus

It is always the same dream

Whatever the form I feel its birth

The contractions of my pseudo womb

That bruised, pulpy fruit,

That heart of mine

Which stumbles about

As a marionette

In the hands of a child.


A bus stop in the middle of nowhere

Green hills like the kyphotic spines

Of retiring giants.

The destination is always home

But I only know the people waiting

Not the place and lest of all

When it is I am to arrive.


I get on the same bus

And it is always crowded

The faces are only semi-pliant

And always the same vague chastisements

This is not the right line

You are going the opposite way

And the bus will not stop until

The distance is insuperable.


They are resigned, these passengers,

To ride this bus indefinitely

Over roads as sharp and thin

As the edges of scalpels.

Through forests and mountains

Until the end of time

And I having boarded

Must also ride.


The driver flickers in and out

Of existence like a flame.

These willing specters

Folded up in their leather coffins

This terrible journey

That extends through

Both cumulus and sea

Through demolished towns

Into the deepest pits of the human psyche.


My phone does not work

But my tears are as real as pollen

And in my metal garden

My ambulatory sarcophagi

I shall bleed

The most terrible flowers

You have ever seen

Coarse and oily

Like the decapitated hands

Of common laborers

When they are strong

And have fed sufficiently

Their mighty roots

Will break free

Of this possessed machine.