at least there's a train

slivering feet through the soil of 2 am, coolest and quietest night ever yet, half mile away you can hear the embrace under street lamps hellbent on jaundicing the eyes and trials of the rare gems of late night and early morning. every corner, every stop along the way is a loaded gun, barrel full of laughs and tears, recoil sent reverberating cracks through the veil of night, splintering the darkness with a thousand eyes, all of a sudden, all pointed inward. the world is a caterpillar, waiting to become, the world is a bowl full of shit, swirling around on its way into the ground, the world is my empty pocket, my empty wallet, my empty belly, my full heart. a glass of beer, a smoky room, quiet backstreet 10 miles from the trains and you could still hear. this is the magic of the southwestern, and the confidence that less than a days walk could get you to the mainline of ancient america, so that there is always a ripcord, always a way out short of jumping in front of a train, you could always just get on.