Freudian Aspects of Public Transportation

The train has stopped
in the tunnel.
“Something,” screeches
the conductor, jerking
back into motion.

Like a lifeline, this trip
is nothing but a metaphor.
The source of all this motion
is operating furtively
deep in the heart,
wielding archaic
hand-cranked drills,
shoveling emeralds
into the furnace.

The mind races,
Desperate to be absorbed,
to disappear into the body;
for the world to disappear,
to be pan-seared and swallowed.

“The restlessness is indicative,”
yields the inner professor,
“of a gap in the spirit.”
It’s true. Diving underground,
riding the city’s neuronal
pathways, filling the gap
with anticipations.

But the Id is unlit.
All we catch of it
are glimpses of graffiti,
schizoid hieroglyphy
in the wan glow
of emergency lighting.

“So, this is our horror,”
we muse. “No wonder.”
But everything else seems
so flat and con-
temporary.

Our fellow travelers page through moments,
colors, celebrity and bridal magazines, sports pages;
Life: time killed
in the Id’s reception area.

Superego files its nails
and forbids entrance to all
but the orderly
and properly insured.

Ego waits aboveground
to reclaim the body
and march it senselessly
all over the trash-smothered,
spit-mottled city,

Beautiful cathedral of the Ego,
decorated with symptoms
of the Id raging beneath.

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