Through the swirling, shining cosmos, through space and time, our souls ride a turbo train to find Her on tracks that seem to rhyme.
Clickety clack, clickety whack, go the wheels that spin through nebulas, through the milky galaxies, to the end of the line, where we hope to find Her, the divine.
Galaxies orbiting their center of mass spin. God’s Eye nebula watches all, and dark matter holds us all together, or so it seems.
God’s contractions, besides all the contradictions, lead us closer to Her with every clack of these trails of rails, railroad ties. and cosmic spikes.
A step out of line,
a shadow of a paper man,
with no substance, but has
bought a sizable existence,
can’t let go. Misses his karmic ride. There’s nothing
sadder than a man who does not matter.
This cosmic train keeps on rumbling, with its rhyme,
Clickety clack, clickety whack throughout the cosmos,
in and out of time,
rushing to the Great Divine.
Somehow, we are
a part of that rocking rhythm,
we matrix life into earthly patterns, Autumn into Winter, Spring into Summer,
and God is there, within the water.
This train passes by the lakes and streams, even rumbles through our indistinct dreams.
This tumbling, rumbling loco
motive travels through
the high rise towers, and the Bowery’s transient mass, through the abodes of the upper and the lower echelons. Whatever happened to the middle class?
Through city blocks of broken bricks, and shimmering
bits of broken glass,
where once there was a soda factory.
Rumbles this cosmic engine, past rusting water towers of baby food canneries who stand as a monument to graffiti.
This train goes by the gaseous stars, goes on by the rusted Mars, where God might be in the water deep down under.
Still travelling by the asteroid fields
that might have been a broken moon.
Might we end up at Heaven's gate? Or,
between the worlds,
till we're rid of all our anger and our hate?
Our realities, blueprints, laid out from A to B,
a vector of our commonalities.
Our arrow spins,
‘Round and round you go!
Where you stop? Nobody knows!’
A children's philosophy
of quantum realities,
as we travel down the line,
by small degrees.
A moment too soon,
we might only muddle through ramshackle ruins.
A moment too late,
and closed might be the pearly gates.
Stupefied, petrified, we stand at the edge of time,
trying to reconcile
our present with the past,
a last chance grasp,
to stay with You.
The scenery behind the glass
gives us a glimpse of buildings whose old porches tilt,
and are held up by shaky stilts.
Gently, so gently, this ride passes through so many empty streets
whose boarded up stores
lay at their feet.
A view of what's been,
and has come to be.
Behind the broken bones of what was once a building, a community garden is growing potatoes and leeks for their Homity.
A child in a red dress plays jacks upon the crumbling concrete.
What reality, what causality
will we embrace as we fly through outer space?
The last surviving prosecutor of the Nuremberg trials, Ben Ferencz is a tiny, tenacious American hero.
Join ACE for a special production of Amy Feinberg’s short play, “Ellis Island Stories”