as he stands
in his room
of his inferno,
his mind spins inward.
stands with him
and wanders without sound,
bruising his eardrums
with deafening rhythms
of solitude and suffering.
upon his eyes,
dazzling with sensations
in his heart.
of his head,
from their trenches.
away they fly
scampering in the cloud
the wrought-iron bars,
caressing the fragments
from the convulsive arrangement
that protect him.
the crazy spindles break
he unfastens rage
from his paint,
but it sticks on
with free will,
dancing in the confusion
on the fatalities
of his synaptic battles.
so he goes back to the window alone
the starry night.
this is realistic version (digital) of Van Gogh's "Starry Night"
The white train comes from a dark tunnel
of rocky mountains with its covering of snow.
The white train looks as though it has just escaped
from the jaws of darkness. The white train steams
from the mountains into the flat
prairie, yielding the fresh seeds around it.
The horizon is exalted. Ancient plains.
Whole sections never to have been farmed.
Over there the strong arms of farmers who
stand in little groups. You cannot see
warriors or lost faces. Cattlemen at a distance.
On their way to a roundup maybe.
In the dining car, behind the hardwood door...
breakfast cereal and berries, cold juice
and a smile. Already this morning
the chef has prepared breakfast for twelve
while tracking the prairies; the formal
waiter never spills a drop only smiles.
A clean white napkin sits on the table
like a small mountain ready to fall. Suddenly
the train brakes and stops. The boy and waiter
peer through the window with wonderment
as they see the farmers with silver scythes
ordering them off the train, into the prairie.