Oneiric Outlaw

With which would you prefer to live,
The image or the abstraction?

The freight train stuck dead in the snow
Of Emptiness, Utah, that night

Or the observation that this
Is not now, is not this, is done?

You could read the journals for hints
About what else to write, believe,

Listen to knowingly, and nod.
Or you could pull over for lights

Swirling in your rear view mirror,
Make a mad dash across the snow,

And disappear into the train,
That starts up again, leaving you,

Miserable, waiting arrest,
With stars and snow to comfort you,

Singing twelve-bar blues, "This is not
Now, is not this, is done. Yeh, this

Is not now, is not this, is done.
Midnight, cold stars, each one a sun."