The connect

The connect

The oh fuck moment breaks against you
and your gut, your stomach embraces you like an air bag,
your fists sweat, they are car batteries leaking acid
your pulse, bad bongo player outside the station is hallucinogenic,
your brain, a passenger with no ticket sits at the end of the train
not knowing when the conductor, that great control neurologist,
is going to arrive; it waits triggered, lipless, lacking sense.

It travels towards the cortex,
slips folders of instructions and templates
and intruder alarm triggers nerve endings,
neurons, synapses, your voice box, your fingers -danger tick.

Your body knows you've let it down, like always,
and tries to escape, tries to duck and roll jump off the train
into fields of sleepers and sick -
but you are stuck in your seat ticket-less
hearing alarms and connecting nothing with nothing with window scenes-
until the conductor, jacketed comes into the carriage,
relays evidence, gives words to payment, crouches to ask for transaction,
and the fact, connects your face with cortex with fingers with oh shit,

and you are debted
stomach sick, beat pulsed, boulder fisted
being held by the elbow until the next station.