Frank is the hour and forty three minutes from New Haven to New York

The fart of the plastic seat firm beneath your thighs
The fog on the far glass window
The fan whirring like a forever faucet
Filling the cart with cold
You can’t whether its melody or melancholy
That’s got you singing these broken hooks.

My life is certainly finite though wholly immeasurable
Unless in train fares and flight times
Sing 15.50 one way.
Sing 2.50 Subway
Ceasura for transfer.


I travel the world in an attempt to flee but only end up flying.
Sing Plane crash is a star falling into the sea.
Sing Wing Knot for Sail
The city was our first escape.
Take architect as ancestor.
Man recreates his mental world in steal and string
Against my weight, props up the black with it’s cello shape

A musician, I will play the night until day breaks its neck to sing.
Every city I see dawn caught in, is me trying to understand myself.
What I left behind in the minds of my grandfathers.
I know they didn’t just bellow in the key of cotton.
They borrowed their voices from Cairo.
Sing pyramid and temple.
Every traveler to their tempo.

I have slept in the heat of the Sahara
to try to burn what I couldn’t bury.
But found out the desert has its own currency.
woke up drowning in currency.
Europe wasn’t life changing
It just made home a hell of a lot easier to locate on a map

Sometimes You forget that the body is a cage,
you take it with you everywhere
and wonder why the view is always from inside your cells.
Sing I am 70 % Atlantic
and wish to be Columbus
but I learned a rolling stone will only make you Atlas.
And in Paris I didn’t see the Greeks
In London I didn’t see the Globe
But on the Berlin wall congregated all the discarded gum
Like a scale of music notes.

In Slovakia they free-styled in a field and the grass clapped till day
Sing, Post-Soviet
Sing Give us fine love and natural cash.
Give us electro-pop and overdose
Sing you diamond punched tongues and fallen face
I mopped the floor with tonic
To lift your throat.
But they don’t pray in the Czech republic.
Ain’t got no gospel
Instead they grovel and throw Catholics out of windows.

They say God gave them no saved us songs for flight.
And the past won’t sing for free.
Dumb sits the cathedral’s organs, they can’t hear a thing.
Quiet and still is the world outside the window
you wonder if you’re really going anywhere when you don’t feel like your moving
and the plane is the only thing making noise for miles.
is the only thing singing.
You almost know its voice better than your own.
You call the memory blood. You call the distance bone,
and try to hold each body like it isn’t made of water.

Honey, wanderlust ain’t love.

But Don’t u wish.
When you want.
You could just want.
And Go.
I got little.
My pocket too Big.
An empty memoir if you want

Sing a little something to the bracketed heart of nowhere
for we still have places to return to.
Sing The road is a chest.
Sing The road is a cheat.
The destination is a cheap attraction.
The traveler is really in search of his own feet.
Sing the soul flat. I am at the edge of myself.
I have run laps around this body.

The world cries, wait for me.