On days like these I busy my hands with odds and ends to silence the rattling in my skull the train cars of my mind continue their death march if you stand too close you may lose grip on reality when I was young my father told me stories of his childhood his brother enraptured by the funeral procession of steel walked along the tracks someone once told him that if he stood too close he would be sucked into the coal powered vortex I can hear the whistle from over thirty years into the future he ran fleshy pistons that ushered his mortal coil to the nearest splintering fence where he clung for dear life I too feel the pulling my train of thought has no brakes no engineer on days like this I drink straight from the bottle I find it difficult to wait until evening I don’t know what I’m expecting maybe that precarious position between lucidity and not caring where this goddamn train will get off it’s Kentucky I know I should be used to this sound but it’s been warped twisted the gyrations of self doubt corrupt even the purest of memories I don’t know if it’s a whistle or church bells anymore but on days like this the world is already commencing it’s embellished revolution I thrust my ramshackle body through this tiny apartment and begin my prayer into porcelain.