Tag Archives: road

15Revisions.

“I guess the difference is in that of a whistle pig and a woodchuck”

, I said, “that’s a bullhead and a catfish.”

Graceland played while I looked at Brahma steel toe

and I thought of the McCandless quote about

mans spirit coming from new experiences.

and when I hear that Hollingsworth track,

“up over the hills ain’t even really that far”

I think of how coasts and inland smell different.

Vedder wants a last breathe that he won’t let out

which I get but there are guys who just want to keep breathing.

So I picked my car up in the morning, humming,

“I”m going to Graceland, Graceland”

and I packed for Brookville, Brookville,

and I burned CD’s for the drive,

thinking I’m bound singing to Graceland.

I did 80 to Clarion wondering what I’d eat for dinner,

thinking of the day before, doing 60 down 219 into PA,

wondering the same thing.

And when I woke up I did calisthenics and

pulled a muscle in my thigh a little,

and had bad powder eggs and a high toasted bagel.

sometimes I find myself not liking what I wrote,

I change it.

I got lost in Clarion and thought about dinner.

I notice myself wondering how far I will go.

My fortune cookie said,

“Everything is possible;

just not so probable.”

and I guess that’s pretty true.

The best part about is driving is just going and going and not thinking about anything in between but what’s in your line of vision and a full tank. So you go on and on and stop in from town to town but for the most part you just have lots of thinking time. Luckily you got Howlin’ Wolf on CD and 10 tracks to go.

I really made it to Pennsylvania,

embracing the knowledge in trucks.

So I parked in the bank parking lot and walked down the the street corner, one big Brahma step at a time. I opened the glass door and 34 heads all confused on who disrupted their card game turned. I walked through them, toward the back of the room and looked for someone who looked in charge. I knocked on the fridge behind me and heard a “Hello!”. A filthy old man showed himself and he knew I was not from town.

Flew up on 66 N in a little snow storm and got home for a two day stay not long before midnight.

I woke up and thought it was Sunday.

There’s no brakeman slowing down,

just whole and oholy luck that I’ll stay on track.

accidentally gave the waiter a two twenties on a $25 bill,

thought it was a ten.

Lou Reed, Tom Waits, Lord Buckley,

gotta get the coffee ready for morning.

I sleep with the fan on high.

Might have got a fiber glass sliver at work.

training for the future,

invent it then manifest it.

this locals dog pissed in the front of the shop today.

I broke the tire shop padlock.

this professional driver knowledge is getting the best of me,

got 6 oil related hats and was excited.

I know trucks past ’07 more than likely to have synthetic differential fluid than older models and a mudflap can ruin a drivers payload.

itching to get a drink.

I know what a drivers face looks like

when his hood falls off his tractor.

I know I really couldn’t call people all day.

I know $1.50 a week/unlimited coffee is a deal.

Sat and watched the waves hit the shore from the third floor balcony

of the beach house, wondering where the clam was that I tossed back in from

the shore. The rain pounded the bay window from the couch within, four feet up

on the coffee table.

my friend said once, “I’ve been working. I get to see the sun rise everyday. I think that’s pretty cool.”

I thought that was pretty cool.

we had talked and talked deep brooding thoughts before,

as some people talk and talk deep brooding thoughts.

but this off the sleeve comment really showed just how delicate life can be.

It’s strange stepping back out of town and watching it from a distance.

I told them, “that’s something I take real serious”

and they believed me. Wild.

I made it home and sat on ideas for two weeks,

reflecting.

I just want to sit with four feet on a coffee table and breath in unison.

 

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Haiku: 34

I want to go to

Pennsylvania to find the

knowledge of truck stops.

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o’holy (a work in progress, of which there are many (continued/continuing))

———-

11/07/12

———-

Days to come, of which are many

I have seen your lies, of which are many.

I have smelt your desserts,

temping on the sill,

and have seen your thighs,

tempting and soft.

and Americas heart was wept with the loss of your s0ns, of which are many.

and everyone I know, their heart weeps with the ever growing emptiness of their bag,

once full and now balled up and placed aside, and of which there are many.

I climbed the hills of small towns and found the left overs of past lives,

walked the streets of the cities and stepped over the left overs of past lives,

swam the waters of the East and had the dreams of the West,

of which there were many.

———-

———-

and if I’ve seen hate, it was of many

and although it may not have outweighed love,

it was easier.

I’ve walked the road less traveled,

hand in hand with those who

look for roads less traveled.

and travel roads less traveled.

and I decided it was not the road less traveled.

and in fact there is no road less traveled.

there are only roads which we travel.

Kerouac wasn’t wanting to be a bum, of which there were many,

hand in hand, being bums with us all,

not being.

Exposing short truths and long lies,

expecting to find Eden,

all gated and pretty.

With Eve,

all gated and pretty.

Expecting our good might outweigh our wrong,

of which there is so many.

Truthfully.

Soulfully.

Sullenly.

Screaming.

We’ll never understand why He forgave us,

but only that his forgiveness came at no small price,

but as:

“Buy now,

limited time only.”

Yet we were all forgiven,

and equally forgotten.

as everyone moves on and tries to remember what they have forgotten.

 

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“sit alone on that river bank till I forget that I can talk”

I fallen in love with every book I’ve read.

I’ve fallen in love with every girl I’ve seen.

I’ll never know if I’m a good writer, I don’t think anyone ever does. I just want to write prose and have people think I wrote down words with purpose – intent. Interest in one’s self is a characteristic a writer needs to have to find importance in their writings; I’m far from interested – or interesting for that matter. I think a good prose comes from a clear mind, not excluding a drunk or drugged mind, but a clear mind in the sense of just knowing at least the next ten words you want to write before you write them. This allows you to think twenty words ahead and begin to plan for the next thirty. I’m at fifty now.

A good writer writes poems for years and switches to prose to try and prove something to himself. Or vice-versa, impossible to say. Chances are he’ll turn back to poetry (or prose), become a critic, an advertiser, a wino, a bum – whatever. He’ll write. Hopeful something might happen tomorrow.

That was fifty.

This is America, with liberty and justice for all.

I’d be happy writing if I just actually could write when I want and not just when my head is too full of words to allow for proper thought anymore and I just have to write to keep from having to carry around a bag of nouns and verbs behind me everywhere I go. Imagine if an accountant could only add numbers when he had thought of so many numbers he literally spewed abstract decimals to his friends while convulsing on his dinning room floor.

The first two lines are the best part of this piece.

I need too practice more.

I’m a long way from the road I want to be on but I’m closer than I ever have been before.

Bird Murder.

 

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Happy Birthday, Jack Kerouac.

“We also spent entire nights in bed

and I told her my dreams.

I told her about the big snake of the world that was coiled in the earth like a worm in an apple

and would someday nudge up a hill to be thereafter known as Snake Hill

and fold out upon the plain, a hundred miles long

and devouring as it went along.

I told her this snake was Satan.

‘What’s going to happen?’ she squealed;

meanwhile she held me tight.”

 

—- J. Kerouac — On The Road

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Muse Poem: Revised 3

A muse of writing,

And creativity aspiring,

I think words sound better in my head.

 

Come forth, bright blonde sun,

Push the pedal down, further,

Toward the horizon.

 

The road spits past,

Roll the windows down,

Dirt sticking to our over heated, moon cooled skin.

Turn the radio off, please,

Let’s listen to the wind

 

(listen to it)

 

That’s the speed of Kerouac,

The love in McCandless’ spirit

The pull of the lake to Wordsworth,

The word-smith.

 

Reveling in thought,

Convulsing in question.

 

Late night lullabies,

keep me awake at night.

 

O’Holy: let me sleep.

O’Holy: let me sleep.

 

O’Holy.

 

O’Holy.

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Sparrow: Three

“I love the sound of the engine,

coursing its path through the night.

and with the sights of the w0rld all around us,

I can’t seem to believe it’s all chance”

said the Hawk,

“the journey of the road,

chasing the sun,

forgiving the moon.”

Up a little too late,

with a little too much wine in his stomach

and having smoked a little too much of his bag.

“But when I see such simple beauty,

a child on a swing,

a girl walking with purpose,

I notice the patterns in watching for reas0n.

It’s getting hard to live.”

“It’s not enough to notice and enjoy,”

said the Sparrow,

“but you must also take part and be destroyed.”

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