a landing alongside railroad tracks.  you’re waiting. coal trains flashing past. most of the time you can’t speak on a train platform. there’s too much noise. and the anxiety about the ticket. where is it? should i move it to another pocket? check, double check. tiresome.

this year i’ve watched writers who are so fucking bored that, when reading their works from the stage, are almost catatonic. it’s like they’re stuck to an ancient continental shield, a platform, and it’s covered with a thin layer of sedimentary rock, primarily composed of their same old words and sentences. nothing’s moving.

shoes. i won’t talk about platform shoes because i have a tender spot in my heart for the orthopaedic variety. there’s no beauty in a heavy shoe that levels out a flawed person. all he has to do is take a step or two and all is revealed. an orthopaedic platform shoe is just trying so fucking hard, you know?

although a platform is an opportunity for public expression and, according to business/literary forces from NYC, the centre of the universe, necessary for writers, it’s also a vestibule at the end of the railway car. a place to stand and wave.

i don’t know about you but i’m riding the fucking train.