graveyard train
graveyard train
by Travis Catsull
it was a long, blue complaint
that caused her death
her tombstone moved
towards some pearl, alone
i had the ocean
all on me
the complaint that caused her death
got stuck in an elevator last nite
some pearl
alone
caused the corn to sweeten
near the river
i’m # 31
scream that
when you lay down
for a quick nap
behind the corn
misfortune oft
surprises my wooden leg
when i approach the greyhound
to take off my layer of moonlight
during the trip
her teeth dug a millimeter
into the crayon creature
and stuttered a human foot
or so
a claw tub of new beach shovels shine
gideon comes
to drink to my health
in an RV park
the wind
blows ones
at our wild lilies
as we append the hound
to the wept and prayed
still left and half sad
urban poverty: snort some
just go on ahead
i got a list of people
behind my right eye
i got a harmonica lifted
and when the cops came
to drag me off the table
in tahoe
i just kept on playing
and they finally just said,
“let him keep playing and everyone
else stop stomping on the floor.
they’ve got kids down there.”
kids show up
to steal a few 9 volts with kite string
it can make a man’s tears flow
3 inches or more
at some parking lot kiss
in a mid-summer dress
above peerless beauty
with pretty gestures
like a bird
gently washing it’s bad leg
in a mud puddle
we are just that
unique
and saving it
for what
and for what
i just don’t
want to know
Thing is about this poem, it connects; although it seems disconnected, you can see the poet’s mind making the associations: “death,” “tombstone;” “long blue complaint,” “ocean;” “pearl,” “pearl;” “corn,” “corn;” “wooden leg,” “stuttered a human foot or so,” “bad leg;” “greyhound,” “hound;” “harmonica,” “let him keep playing;” “kids,” “kids.” It begins with death and ends with a question of what life means, and in between it’s like a skeleton for us to put together. I think it’s about poetry (“it can make a man’s tears flow…at some parking lot kiss in a mid-summer dress”) or at least about making a life “just that unique and saving it for what” the poet chooses not to contemplate; it just has to be done, or keeps on happening.