I sit on the tracks, 

a hundred feet from

earth, fifty from the

water. Gerald is

inching toward me

as grim, slow, and

determined as a

season, because he

has no trade and wants 

none. It's been nine months 

since I last listened 

to his fate, but I

know what he will say:

he's the fire hydrant

of the underdog.



When he reaches my

point above the creek,

he sits down without

salutation, and

spits profoundly out

past the edge, and peeks

for meaning in the

ripple it brings. He

scowls. He speaks: when you 

walk down any street 

you see nothing but

coagulations

of shit and vomit,

and I'm sick of it.

I suggest suicide;

he prefers murder, 

and spits again for 

the sake of all the 

great devout losers.



A conductor's horn 

concerto breaks the 

air, and we, two doomed 

pennies on the track, 

shove off and somersault 

like anesthetized 

fleas, ruffling the 

ideal locomotive 

poised on the water 

with our light, dry bodies. 

Gerald shouts 

terrifically as

he sails downstream like 

a young man with a 

destination. I 

swim toward shore as 

fast as my boots will 

allow; as always, 

neglecting to drown.