Frustration Station Poem by Hans Ostrom

At Frustration Station, crates
of bad karma get off-loaded,
vats of bile sit in storage, and
tickets turn to paste. Conductors
have called a halt. Engineers
weep, and tunnels belch hot wind.
Departures and arrivals melt
into one immobile blob. Turnstiles
turn into empty gun-barrels aimed
at one another. Vermin gnaw
wires of ambition. Only the fiddler
playing for oily coins is happy.
These faces, these faces, these
faces twist toward scream.