Before I crossed the railroad tracks I stopped to gather myself, to make sure I noticed the feeling of crossing when no train was coming. I looked down the tracks for the ghost of River Phoenix. Thoughts of my Mama Jo flew by, the tracks up on the hill behind her house Pennies my brother and I placed there; we waited, excited to see their fate. On the other side, I stopped again, to make sure I noticed how it felt to want to see something. Something that would spark a spark if I sent you a picture. What happened? Or had nothing happened, and this is who you are? On my walk the next day, I didn’t look for things to show you I walked and looked for no one but me. And I saw a chimpanzee painted on the side of a freight car, it must have been more than 10-feet tall. I don’t know what the fuck that means. I could have shown you things you’d never seen. What did I manifest? What did I couple to the goodness and light? The cat that God, tired at the end of the fifth day, phoned in as calico. A centaur, a mash up of men Frankensteined together. A tangle of thoughts but the comb rakes my heart.