Monday, December 13, 2010

Oh, to be me

well, the weatherman said a chance of snow showers.
the bastard.
yeah, seven inches of em.
it's like Johnny Holmes sayin, "what? this little thing?"

right away, at first glance,I knew i had no chance of making it.
so, me being me, I tried anyway.
you see the results.
you don't have to be a truck driver to know it's best when all wheels touch the ground.

I ran to the house in a panic-cuz that always helps.
"quick! she's gonna go! call a wrecker and tell him NOW!.
well again, that's like telling Johnny Holmes not to put it in too deep.
good luck with that!

"yep" he said. "leavin right now" he said.
ten minutes later I called again.
he answered the phone.
"leavin pretty soon"


listen said I, you can't do anything from the front. you need to come around the back way.
"I don't know no backway" he said
I'll tell you, I said
"No" he said. "I'll come the front way to look er over"

"hey dad, the cops are out there"
more fuck

I walked through the icy creek in my tennis shoes to assure the officer all was fine. not as bad as it looked.

he spit his coffee all over the windshield

I went back to the house (through the icy water-yeah, well fuck you hypothermia) to call the fine people who own the truck and were responsible for the load to tell them there had been a tiny mishap.
"we'll need pictures"
fuck fuck fuck
how can I make this not look bad?
I raced through the bastard creek to take the pictures before she toppled over.
I needn't have hurried as my daughter raced eagerly to take pictures. She seemed quite amused by the whole thing.
I tried to shoo her like a fly after my hamburger but she just laughed harder and clicked faster.

When the wind blew, she'd waver and creak and I'd turn away, preferring to just hear the crash rather than see it. the cop was on his radio taking bets.

I raced back through that mother frikken creek to call the, yes, BS Towing service.
"should be there any time"
well, anytime seemed a little vague to me so i ran back through that shittin creek to chase the sparrows off
the truck.
little bastards-go find a power line. I swear they were trying to knock her over.

a half hour later Frank showed up.
I swear I had told them that it was a fully loaded semi about to plow a field.
but here comes frank in a tow truck that seemed far more suited to sports cars in the median.
all at once i became chief brody in jaws needing a bigger boat.
but frank seemed unconcerned.
now frank was somewhere between 82 and 113. it was hard to tell. his face looked as if he'd been on every arctic expedition since the poles were discovered. I'd never seen a face with crevasses like that.
"I need to get behind her"
yes, frank, you do. that's what I TOLD YOU.

at this point, some doves had taken roost too and I feared the end was near. it was a full twenty miles around on ice packed winding roads. I foolishly pulled an ace out of my sleeve.
well frank, said I, right over there on that little road is another bridge. if you cross that, you can drive through my field-i swear it's solid-and come up behind.
"how bigs the bridge?" he asked
it's pretty sturdy, i lied.
"whats it made of?"
he seemed to take to challenges.
oh, it's concrete, I offered, without telling him it was seven feet wide, one foot thick, supported by three broken pillars and had no sides.
"well, let's go look at it."
frank was gettin into it.
maybe we should walk down there, I suggested, knowing he'd rebuff anything beyond.
"augh! we'll drive"
um, ok
frank made it six feet down the tiny road before he slid sideways into and through my neighbors fence.
the only neighbor I got along with and his cows wandered over.
once frank figured he'd done about all the damage he could, he put on some chains and got out and
on we inched to the bridge.

I was sure he'd find good sense; say, "no pardner, that ain't gonna happen"
but no, frank grinned like a mad man and said he liked our chances.
well, um, er, should I walk ahead and guide you? I offered.
"nawwww," he countered. "we'll be fine.
as we started across the bridge, I realized he had nothing to lose. He'd had a long good life.
we both had cigarettes dangling from our lips. I looked over to him grinning and damn near pissed myself.
"what's the load limit on this here bridge," he asked
how much you weigh? I quivered back.
"thirty two thousand" he nearly flirted.
I looked down to the river below, before answering.
I'd say that;s the new limit.

damned if we didn't make it
the field too.
then he backed that thing across my bridge while i fastened my eyes shut.
we got out and watched the big rig waver back and forth like a sailor on leave.
Frank loved the beauty of it all.
I surrendered to fate.

frank took his time hookin her all up then played with some levers to get the feel.
he hit the wrong one and the wrong end lifted and I began to cry
this pleased him and he laughed
"relax sonny, just testin the waters"

it became ever clear that this fuckin little piece of shit was not going to lift my truck and I prayed for an angel.
he came in the form of James, the road grader operator turned snow plower who was lookin for a little fun.
frank took him under his wing and they bonded.
"we'll hook a chain to you," frank invented. "and I'll lift her all I can and you drag her back on the road.

I had become the stunned audience.

as frank began to lift, the trailer crunched and buckled. metal bent and lights popped.
frank squinted through his pall mall
"knew that was gonna happen. can't be helped"

but frank couldn't lift her enough for james to drag her, so he gets another idea.
"you" (that being me) "when I lift her some, you take these wooden blocks and prop her up. then we'll get another bite"

ah, so this is where it all ends. with eighty thousand pounds teetering over my head I was chosen to be the hero. They'd throw me the timber from the high ground and, well, just see what happens.

I no longer cared. I was wishing for a quick end and down I went.
as I looked up to the behemoth hovering over me and james and frank admiring my courage, I offered a strange prayer.
well, God, if you're lookin to kill me, here's your chance.
but gawd damn if after an hour of this crazy game, the truck inched its way more and more onto the road.

the cop sipping coffee up front
me propping boards like a bomb expert waiting for the kaboom
my daughter gleefully snappin pictures
franks truck half tipped over but the cables holding
james pulling into the woods on his grader like the little train that could.
my only consolation was that if my truck went, so did theirs.
a semi, wrecker and grader all tumblin down the hill together with chains flyin and cables snappin.

but it didn't happen
somehow the whole frikken circus worked and to frank, it seemed a let down. Like sex without the orgasm.
just too easy.
the cop grew bored and left as did my daughter.
james wouldn't take a nickel
frank gave me a bill for $600.00
and we all trudged on with our day.
and winter just started.

oh, to be me

Monday, December 6, 2010


I am here, in New Mexico
Surrounded by a whole lot
Of nothin
Which is so not
The whole lot of somethin
I left behind
You cant touch me here
Or her, or him
Or all that it
I have a truck doin 84
The music loud
I spread my wings
Far out the window
I can fly
Right thru that sage n scrub
I commingle with lost cattle
Happy to be overlooked
I fall in it
Bathe in it
Roll wash and swallow whole
I am free
Of everything it
I dont always like my job
Just now
Nestled beneath these
Chugging clouds
I love it!
Fuck tomorrow
Fuck LA
Fuck it

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Wednesday, December 1, 2010

In The Shadow Of The City

Broke down again
This time in Nashville
when this happens
Two hours always becomes four
And four becomes eight
Just because they can

The cities big glassy towers
Loomed high above me
-But a millions miles away

Its like the moon,
All can claim it
With a glance up
But only Neil plants the flag
That casts the shadow

I found myself here
In the shadows
where freeways dare not look down

Its like gum on the ground
You only look down
If you step in it
And no one does it
On purpose

So i did what i always do
Pulled up my trousers
And waded in

Nobody can ghost like the homeless.
Some bushes rustle
And they just appear

Same with the gangstas

There's no one behind you
Then three
In perfect step

I looked up
Under the bridge as i passed
Bedrolls, hands and feet
Hanging as no vacancy signs

Two guys snake out of the brush,
Mismatched boots
Worn out gloves
And hair
Like a perfect river snag

They don't smile
But they don't threaten either
Their eyes say
Watch your ass
And stay otta my shit

I spit to flex my muscle

The sidewalk is tore up
into concrete knuckles and
I feel like Amundsen
At the pole
Knowing a fall would look bad

Across the street a dude
Who might be king
Sportin colours and bulk

He crosses over

I light a cheap smoke
And realize hesitation
Would show my pair of deuces

I take the inside
And make eye contact

He nods as if to say
Yes, on a bright Sunday afternoon
You may,
But don't be here tonight

as I've spent a lot of time
In cities, i understood

I've stopped my truck
In mid afternoon
In the worst Detroit has to offer
Stepped out
And pissed on their street,
Even paused to shake it

its easy as the battleground
Is abandoned
When the army sleeps

But ten pm is another story,
At ten i would duck low
And not even slow
For red lights

The funny thing is
You only fear
When you have something to lose
When i walk with a wallet full of cash
And plastic
I feel for it often
Worry for it

It's like a three year old
On your neck
In a crowded room

But stuff three bucks
In your pocket
And only your life
Can be taken

And lets face it,
The guys in the glass towers
Already own it

Monday, November 22, 2010

Tiger and Me

Often I am at warehouses where fork lift operators must load goods into my truck.
I can always tell the new ones.
Those that have been at it awhile zip, fly, scoop and push as if the machine had veins and nerves in sync with the operator.
The new ones bang, bump, drop, jerk and mostly just look pathetic as everyone within thirty feet run for cover.
There's really nothing to it, you can't really hurt anything. it's just the difference between fear and confidence.
All mental.
I've seen truck drivers that could weave through traffic like a nurse shark in a coral reef. Damn near pretty.
But one day they screw up. They take out the old lady's fender on the brown Buick and everything changes.
Their eyes change, they shake just a bit when things get sticky. They get out and look when backing cuz they're just not sure. Sometimes they never make it back.
It can happen to anyone; baseball players, politicians, teachers, bankers after one too many bad loans.
Even Tiger Woods.
Something happens and the magic's all gone.
Where they could once do no wrong, they now can do no right.
And it's all mental. All fear and confidence.
I never took out that bumper and I never could hit a golf ball straight anyway.
But I understand.
And the harder you try to recover the magic, the farther away it drifts.
Sometimes, the only choice left is to lay it down and walk away.

I could use some magic
I remember the coral reef
When I almost admired my own shadow
in never missing a turn
but sometimes
when it's gone
it's gone
Tiger may never break Jack's record
and my shadow
settles still to the sand

The Physical

I drive a truck for a living, though often it seems it drives me.
Federal regulations require, among many other things, that I take a physical examination every two years to prove my fitness for lumbering and careening down Uncle Sam's roads.
it's quite rigorous, this physical
wink wink
Anyway, I had been putting it off as I've been sicker than old man Johnson's mule when it crashed the fence and ate through Mrs. Peterson's flower garden.
But getting better with time wasn't working, so I decided to take my chances.
I spent Thursday night in South Carolina arguing with a state trooper as to whether I should be driving down the freeway flinging blown tire all over the highway.
Considering his was one of the cars I managed to maim with my indiscriminate rubber bombs, he won easily.
I was given a written warning and ordered not to move until the tire was fixed.
Four hours later, it was.
Friday, I drove six hundred miles, coughing, hacking and wheezing the entire way.
Friday night, I wheeled my piece of shit into the clinic.
I had nothing left. Just death lookin for a grave.
What kind of clinic stays open til five am anyway?
How bad did you do in medical school to be feeling trucker's balls at three am?
A dude comes out, looks like seth rogen's mangy brother. Torn up jeans, an old t-shirt, and tats where skin might once have been.
I wondered, is he the doctor?
he made me pee in a cup
pretended to take my pulse, though I'm sure he was several inches off and I didn't have one anyway.
pumped up my arm, and gazed out the window, and said my blood pressure was fine.
then the eye test. Shit. I had nothin, and he knew it.
"Number five?"
"um, the right?"
"You sure?"
"uh, the left?"
"Getting closer"
"the top??"
"Bingo! You see just fine."
"Have a seat," he says. "The Doctor will be right with you."
Whew! they have real doctors!
A twenty-somethin blond comes strollin in. If it was midnight at Logan's Roadhouse I'd probably hit on her.
"You look really sick!" she begins
"I am" I agree
My knowing seems to satisfy her.
"How's your hearing?"
"Um, seems ok"
"Good. Fine" she makes a note.
"Can you hold your hands above your head?" She asks.
"uh, sure."
"Good!" She seems pleased and makes another note.
"Can you turn your head?" She continues.
"Yeah, think so."
So Far so good.
She has me stand. Presses my sides and has me breathe deep as I break into convulsive coughing.
"I think you have pneumonia." She quickly asserts.
"You're all cruddy and gunky over here. You really need to see a doctor."
"But I thought you were a doctor?" I ask
She smiles. "I am."
"Then why don't you scribble me some antibiotics so I can get rid of this gunky crud?" I suggest.
She smiles again. "Oh, I can't do that. If you had an allergic reaction you could sue me."
I counter. "Well, Yeah, but if you  sign me as healthy tonight, and I die tomorrow, you're gonna look pretty silly"
She doesn't answer. We both know she'll pass me. The company I drive for doesn't pay her to yank their drivers from the road. They pay her to sign my card. Breathing and warm will do.
"Take down your pants."
"Further. Those too."
Strange, why didn't she just ask me if my balls were fine, like she did the rest of me?
poke  pinch prod  squeeze
more coughing
"Well, you don't seem to have a hernia. You pass."
I wish I had been able to get a hard on and knock out her front tooth but i was just too damn sick and tired and this wasn't Logan's Roadhouse.
Her name was Angel. Dr. Angel
And if I live through the week, I'm good for another two years.

Friday, October 29, 2010


Today, I had to make up a pick up at a Federal Prison in El Reno Oklahoma.
The apprehension set in just upon seeing it in the distance.
Then the entrance.
Then the gate
Then the wire
As I entered, They searched the truck. Then me. Then they took my laptop, phone, and camera.
Then they made me sign this form and that saying yes and no and of course I understand the consequences.
By the time I was within the razor wire, I felt like one of them. Not the guards, they had guns. And my pocket knife.
It's strange how being in intense environments can make you part of it.
The same thing happened the other day in the underground of Kansas City.
It took more than one song and some distance to cure me both times.
I wondered if it's always so.
That feeling when we go underwater, is it of drowning or as becoming a fish?
Men in space-do they feel as little planets? Or the bolts of their ships?
It's not always so.
I've been to fairs and carnivals and felt anything but the joy they dupe and sell.
I think there are environments too weak to alter moods we already lay claim to. But the ones that fall like a shadow from the sky and convince us we can be had, like love, and bitterness and captivity-have a power to take us into the bosom of its fire and make us its very fuel, in order to consume itself in a greater conflagration.
I wish no part in a larger whole.
Anyway, I've escaped and find myself in Russellville Arkansas on a Friday night wishing to be anywhere else except El Reno.
Gonna shoot across I-40 on my way to North Carolina. Don't forget to wave as I pass by.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Subtropolis Pics

Got online a minute so quick posted a couple pics of subtropolis and carefree caves (yeah, right) believe it or not, thousands of people work down here, below Kansas City.

Monday, October 25, 2010


This morning i delivered to this strange place in kansas city. 1100 acres of warehouses and offices underground.
Streets, a post office-everything.
Except natural light and breezes.
And apparently there are many of these subterranean hell holes in KC. I loaded in another.
Limestone, a new kind of real estate.
The people i talked to there seemed dark, sullen. I asked one of these strange moles if he didn't miss daylight.
But i'm not sure if he could remember.
I too, felt dark n sullen while there, and such relief upon exiting.
Now i drive a winding hiway with the windows down and a cool wind blowing the trees n fields around me.
Gordon lightfoot is singing of ships n storms.
Things could be worse
Much worse
So i sing n breathe deeply

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Monday, October 18, 2010

More Office Pics

hello you sneaky bastard

always light at the end

lazy honkers taking a break

bet it's fun at midnite


calling me home

Justin, a new friend I'll never see again

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

The Wrong Side

Last night,

I found myself in a hell-hole of a town in West Virginia.
I'd fought the mountains, the rain, and myself all day, I badly needed a walk along some tracks. And as usual, they were there.

But as I started walking south, I glanced back over my shoulder.

There, across the ditch, across the four lanes of heavy traffic, over the median, was a young man working the off- ramp for change. Just he and the dog.
From the distance I guessed him to be Native American, maybe Chinese, maybe Mexican, who knows. He was hatted low and bundled deep against the gray cold and he, just too much of a worn out shadow to tell for certain.
But the dog was a tiny poodle-like creature on a leash. They both were mostly ignored and I turned back to the tracks.
Later, as i returned down the tracks, I noticed him across the expanse walking in the direction I now returned from. Our eyes met briefly and I watched him gingerly guide the frail dogs trot.

I wish I had been on his side, not for his sake but for mine. I wish i could've blown him a twenty along with a kiss across the highway. But the fuckin fords on their fuckin way to fuckin monday night football and PTA meetings and fat suppers would've trampled both.

So it was just the eyes.

I wish i had taken him to my truck so that we might've sat cross-legged on the bed while he told me his story, maybe share a beer, maybe laughed.
I wouldn't have asked him where he was going, that question is never fair.
Then maybe we'd lean back against opposing walls and talk of the dog's story as he rubbed its trusting neck. The dog, this dog, is perhaps the only friend who never betrayed him.

But I didn't-we didn't.

See, I was going this way, and he that way, and on opposite sides and all and then all them fucking fords keeping fucking schedules, and, well, we just didn't.
I slept in a warm bed with a full belly and a pocket full of useless coin. I don't know where they slept. I didn't earn the right.

But I have some hopes; I hope he keeps the dog and the dog him. I hope he makes another friend. I hope someone misses him. I hope there's a love for him somewhere.
I also hope he doesn't wish for more than he and the dog need. That would be tragic. He'd become just another pissed off ford late for american idol.
Or maybe a lost trucker with money who's only comfort is an empty rail road track on the wrong side of the fords.

He has the dog, he's better off than he knows. and the ford will come soon enough and he'll miss the dog.


Sunday, October 3, 2010

explanation and more pics

Dear Reader, please understand that any words I post to this site are done from my tiny phone on the highway. Blogger sees fit to space and paste without mercyand I am unable to edit and fix. When I come here and see how my words were laid out I nearly cry at how they read, but it is what it is. Please don't look for art in these posts. Just share my tangled thoughts with me please. Thank you, Rick

Night driving
a brilliant sun

a brilliant sunset

I love sunlight thru trees

mmmm, water!

geese keeping me company

a fine place to pee

Saturday, October 2, 2010

Mississippi in the morning

Woke up this morning in Baton Rouge
My creole blood likes the name, but not really much to see.
I'm northern by nature and birth as my creole blood migrated long ago and i find the south too snakey and too bible belt for my sandstorm ways.

But i have to say, as i plunder my way to Virginia and mountains too strong for this piss ant truck, if there's anything more beautiful than mississippi in the morning-marry it.
I've travelled this land and beyond steady for four decades now and ain't much i haven't seen.
But this early morning october saturday has gifted me generously with a sun like raindrops on fire through trees too grand to describe.
Mississippi, i applaud and thank you for such a spectacular performance!

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Thursday, September 30, 2010

Sharing a sky

I have a friend who
Shares her garden
And we, task of strays

She wants me tatooed
And if her permanent smile
It could win
My skin I'd gladly give

But she's like the rest of us
A little fucked
In her own chambered way

and tatoos more temporary than we think

Her mind and body know
Too many bad days
But her heart flits always
Good and plumb
In the garden of
Dragonfly wings

I think of her often,
This lady outlaw
Held by Doc Holliday

And now, as i sail
The calm of a fall day
While Desperado
Sings me to sad

I will pass close,
Not close enough to touch
Or share a coffee
But a sky
And birds in passing feeder to feeder

The coffee will happen
Maybe even the tatoo
But today, across the expanse
Of outlaws and strays
The sky will be enough

Good morning Marion

Saturday, September 25, 2010

Johnny's bar

It was a hell of a day,
A hell of a week
One of much loss, and
Very little gain
With Chicago showing small favor

Johnny's scribbled my prescription
And Dawn filled it

The trail from my truck
Was easy to follow
As many bled this
Passage through
The broken fence

A real throwback,
This johnny's, where
Everyone smokes, even
The bartender
And the juke box
Cries, like a lone wolf Ball hung on a barb wire fence

Two young girls shoot pool as
We all twist to spy the
Denims stretch,
But when they kiss
Many lose interest

The guy next to me has
Quartered Gypsy Woman
And George Jones.
I approve as i watch his eyes close, His body rocks And his hands rub his phone
As a genie's lamp

He's fat, too so
And i wish to comfort him
But not now
-he's gone remembering

On my other side, is Brent
Another trucker playin the ATM
Like penny slots

His army brat wife with
Twelve tatoos and his
Two kids has said goodbye , And he shoots crown
Like lemon drops
Him i comfort

When my prescription runs out
And runs over
I order a pizza
And follow our path,
Our fix To another day
Another highway

Thursday, September 23, 2010

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

A watch

Got a watch today, an ugly one
They seemed pleased i hadn't wrecked a truck or killed civilians in my first year.
The small stuff they'll overlook
Wink wink
i hate watches. Would never wear one.
I hate time, it never runs in my favor.
This one has cheap n gawdy written all over it.

Reminds me of my mother
"it's a boliva!" she said, as she proudly layed it in my hand.
"the guy in the bar had a bunch of em in his coat. I only paid ten dollars for it!"
Her bloodshot eyes nearly beamed.
I looked at it closely
I wore it for the eight days it ran.
Never had the heart to tell her that Boliva isn't spelled Bolivia

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Tuesday, September 14, 2010

On My Walk

Last night
I met a strange girl
It was a good night for a walk
And we both knew it

I showed her the sunset
But she'd already seen it
She looked anyway
So I could see it in her eyes

She was a strange one
But strange was her sanity

She would look left
Point right
And talk right down the middle
Where the truth is
Always overlooked

I swear I met her before
And the wind in her laugh
Gave me entrance
To a place I had known

We parted easy
With only smiles
And I watched her
Become one with the shadow

It was a good night for a walk
And we both knew it
And somewhere down the middle
I remembered her truth

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Friday, September 10, 2010

Travellin on

I'm freezin!
n it feels wonderful
It's a great day to be a traveller
I nosed in, nestled in really, to a piece of field last night on the edge of a truckstop in northern ohio.
Woke up this mornin and stepped gently into the day. The sunshine played lightly along everything.
Down a ways in the grass were some wanderers. They had a tent but a couple of them just lay in the open, just a sleeping bag and incongruous white pillow. Some slept, some woke n stretched. Maybe a fly by night rock band playing bars for a hundred a night. Who knows, doesn't matter.
In the truckstop we travellers bumped each other as we strangers brushed our teeth together in the sink just shaved in. It's alright.
Getting coffee, a thirty somethin blonde with bad bed head n wearin whatever was available gave me a sleepy smile as we fumbled through the creamers.
Both silently agreeing, it's alright.
Now the friday miles slip easy to an indie radio station playin good stuff.
Today, it's alright

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Thursday, September 9, 2010

Wednesday, September 8, 2010


Was kind after all
And september
Still is for songs

It thundered all night long
As a cool rain
Pounded my roof
And blew on my feet

And it gave me the cbc
No clear channel
American bullshit playing the same
Old bullshit
Over n over

Now, in the new morning
The air is crisp, the clouds heavy
The wind strong
And i am alive, smiling
As i should
With the windows down
And the cbc playing
True road songs
It's a good day
Buffalo was kind
Thank you buffalo
For thinkin of me

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Tuesday, September 7, 2010


Will you be kind?
The long hot summer is passing

I've wilted under it's heat
Waded through its floods
Searched for a breeze
And was always a dollar short
Of a long ago shade tree

Will you let erie
Blow me a breeze?
Will you let the leaves
Twist in a crazy song
Will you let the waves
Sleep me to wake?

Last week,
Atlanta beat me to death
Twice. For good measure

But its september now
A month for songs
A month of ease before
The cold winds speak
Get ready

September is a time
A gentle ticking
Its a place
In tender hearts

And Buffalo,
Your big, powerful,
Able to swing me fully
From summer's final gallow

As i drive north, Buffalo,
I spill my prayer
Under the gavel of your call
Will you be kind
This september day?

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Wednesday, September 1, 2010

The Postmaster Makes Me Wait

In his silly fence
I smoke in his weeds
His bathroom
Is only for those shackled
In badges
He thinks i am his
I am nobody's
I have no badge
No place beyond the weeds

Big planes fly above
They have bathrooms
And flight

See, i am already gone
Fuck your magazines
And badges

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Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Old friends

I texted an old friend tonight, Pat. We've more stories than frito's has lays. No matter how drunk or stupid we were, we could never offend each other Hell, we even shared an apartment in Tampa Bay.
This was my second try. And my last.
And it's not just him.
I wonder, have i changed? Or not changed? Or not changed right?
I like old friends and the times we had.
Reformed? I can do reformed.
More fucked then ever?
We can work it out.
But it seems i've become the skeleton in the closet to all who ever called me friend.
I wonder if this is unique only to me.
It doesn't feel good but i am what i am and sometimes what i was and sometimes what i've become.
Apparently, this is beyond the manual.
Once again, i find myself wondering about this word "friend" and the value of its worth.
Actually, i'm wondering about the value of several words i've held in esteem.
I'm going to miss Pat.
But now i wonder, were we actually just two strangers that shared a time?

Good mornin america

How are ya?
Don'tcha know me?
I'm your wayward son
I've come to bring you truck axles
For your war machines
In afghanistan

The girl with the clipboard knows
Or does she?
Little matter

All i hear in the new dawn
Is a train whistle
And cars humming a distant freeway

Radio stations
Playing the same silly shit
To people sipping coffee and eating mcmuffins as they do their part
To ensure society prospers

Banks and malls
Are turning on and tuning in
And i fight the taliban
With my truck axles on only
Three hours sleep and
No bronze star

Little matter to me
And the loons
On a still northern lake

We just hear the train whistle
That will never find afghanistan
And sing along in our own
Wayward way

Good mornin america
How are ya?

Monday, August 30, 2010


lying in the grass
Looking up through a gentle tree
Whispering secrets in the breeze
Wisonsin feels kind, just now

Wondering, should i plot a course?

Trouble is,
I only have Jack Sparrow's compass
And it always leads me
To storms

God, how i love the storms!

But this ship, so broken and battered,
How many tempests can she drive?
I lean a mast and watch my wake
From the stern,
And think of the dusty charts
Rolled and parched

That was never my way

Some men are born to storms
And crazy compasses
Such am i

So do i go bare poles and drift?
Or full sail, tattered and torn?
Could make a run for the harbour
Sell stories from the pier
And let the storms rage without me

Feel that breeze?
She's stiffening
The clouds billow and dare me come

Truth is,
I don't know any other way

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more office pics


the other side

soft ending


time to wake up

over the edge


Sunday, August 29, 2010

Some Road Pics

crop duster
once a pride and joy

tic toc

lake city mn

Hope n fear

I hoped once
But then wisdom
Taught me to fear my hope

So i threw hope and fear
Into the ocean
And became wise

Wisdom balanced the books

There was no up or down,
Win or lose
Hope or fear
Just order

Little pink houses
Where well fed wise men
Congratulate each other
For their good manners

I'm no longer wise
Well fed, good mannered.

I hope to be a bird
Leaping a nest on untried feathers
A new born sea turtle
Scrambling sand to sea
Into an ocean of dangers

I fear the alternative

Thursday, August 26, 2010

broken fence

She's been eyein it
For some time now
No secret really

That lush pasture
The cool blue
Waterin hole
The dandy stallion
And the weathered fence
That lost its hold

I aint gone out there
Haven't looked
But i gotta feeling

There's somethin in the air

Can't blame her
Look at the dead seed
Lyin at her hooves
The dirty water hole
The dreamy gelding

There's somethin afoot
Shoulda fixed that fence
And what?
Take away her chance?

Can't really be sure
Just yet
But last night
When the moon was full
And stardust hung heavy
I think she jumped the fence

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Wednesday, August 25, 2010


Sitting under a harvest moon
I guess
A thousand lost souls
Wondering when their dreams died
And did anyone show up
For the wake
I'm parked on the edge
Of nowhere
And feel at home

There's a lawn chair
A moon, a smoke
A beer, and me

Don't know where i'm
Goin tomorrow
Don't really care

Truck is tired
So am i
But siler city NC
Can do that to ya

i have a sweater
To give away
So i have a purpose

And with a little luck
Maybe a tomorrow

If not
That's ok

The other thousand
Won't miss me

Of this
I'm glad

hello moon

What a moon!
Didja see it?
Holy men say
God put a rainbow in the sky

But where is one
When you need it?
Can you reach it? Touch it?
This moon touches me

Rainbows are of promises
Hopes, beauty
But what of the likes
Of someone like me?

A cold dusty rock
That reflects
And is contrary
To anothers beauty

I drive into the sun
But reluctantly so

Beauty burns
But the moon lays cool
Over my broken shoulders

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Tuesday, August 24, 2010

It's a good time to walk

A Good Time To Walk
Anytime is really

The reluctant crunch
Of fresh snow granting passage

The soft mud
Lining a trail of daring

The august trail
well worn

Along abandoned shores
All have a season,
Know a purpose

But September
That first real chill
When the first flannel

finally feels right

The trail of gold along
The far off sound of
A plodding combine

The lone rifle's echo

A harbinger of
The rays of remembrance

Rivers seem slow and tired

And up in the grove
free of mosquitoes,

The first wood slips
In a rusty stove and
A good morning coffee warms
From a stained cup

The marigolds are gone now
A new season,
-A good one
Takes hold
It's a good time for a walk