ETP III - Joe

The weight of the world, all 5400 kilograms of it, rested on the tracks at the base of cold sharp mountains, ambiguous chaparral planes. Dynamite detonated its way into a pre-forged future and violently blew through the earth and set the decibel level for what was to follow. Empires rose and fell on two metal steel bars connected by oil-soaked dead trees.

The oil that kept the ties dry was ultimately what murdered the senile, wrinkled trains

Machines that were bank accounts for men white with romantic names
And black-stained fame

So long ago. The men with wheels and gears for faces were buried but their bones still lay on the earth. Coal explodes into oil, trains into trucks, trucks into planes that sometimes blast into the most recent mechanical money-maker

Buildings breathing zeros and ones that travel at the speed of electrons in copper

These new trains ride wireless tracks across digital country-sides

New trains don’t look or sound like anything and patronize parallel pieces of metal

New trains are soul-less, omnipotent, and explore new markets in a way that doesn’t require an architect or land surveyor or empathy

That was now, but now miles of metal, miles of metal, miles of metal are left to wander and ponder. We used to confuse the wind and the earthquakes for trains. Financial vanity lasts so these tracks last, a tribute to a romantic, physical past. The fortune, the land, the torture, the plans, the work, the suffering, the myth, the gift, all weigh on those tracks so that they don't have to rest on us.