Tag Archives: travel

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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Tiger

prose or poems.

o’holy find love!

move toward a goal.

what was that she said?

stop now.

maybe not.

continue.

rejoice.

drugs. drugs. drugs.

stop now.

what did I say to you?

I miss the mother and son who sat behind me, my seatmate, the comfort.

No one makes noise from Roc to Cuse. The Lady who took my seat eats

crackers quietly and rubs her finger tips in the aisle. She flips vanity fair reading

the ads and plows another cracker into her beaked face.

15 minutes till noon, when I’ll allow myself to start drinking the booze I brought along in my bag.

9-10 more hours until Boston. I bought the ticket, I’ll take the ride.

she refuses to

hold conversation. I hope

they sell bottled wine.

All stops went quick, hoping to get into Boston early. Slept from Albany to  Schenectady.

Too many hits of tequila in the bathroom. Just left Springfield, headed toward Wooster.

Had noodles and coffee to burn off some liquor. Both were terrible.

Dinner lady, forty something, black and from Chicago.

Hope to find a sandwich shop in Portsmouth and a good coffee and maybe flowers.

I want time to sit and enjoy a Marlboro.

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Haiku: 34

I want to go to

Pennsylvania to find the

knowledge of truck stops.

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I’ll sleep tonight and wake to her serious morning face of deep, blonde haired concentration

“dropping words like bombs,” that’s a classic cliche,

no, we’re tying meaning to verbs and forgetting

structure.

 

prose works best in conversation,

spontaneous if under the right influence.

the last thing on my to-do list was “write”,

the five things above it were “find a job”.

 

He’d say things like “groovy” and make me tell him what I’ve been up to

when all I wanted to know was the things he’d done in his life.

I saw him once in a suit, and he told me it would be the only time.

about 6’2″, or so, dark short hair, quick on the go but carefully slow,

I think of stopping over every time I pass his home.

 

I left for a day but came back the next morning,

a futon wasn’t going to cut it.

 

one step at a time, bud.

 

I know a girl who’ll travel 400 miles to see me,

and I’ve done the same. who told me I was her best friend,

and I’m beginning to think the same. She said to me once,

“you can stay home and write all day and I’ll go to work, that’ll

work just fine.” But I guess that’s the thing

with myth – you never know when it’s true.

 

I started this bit two years ago,

I’ll try again in another two.

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Excerpt from journal – Ending trip from Newark to Buffalo

Seeing a clouds shadow from the ground compared to a clouds shadow from the sky are two vastly different things.

I wonder if Kerouac would have flown more if he had the chance.

Probably not,

McCandless didn’t.

Everyone needs to love something,

or at least be loved.

 

I meant to write this before –

I have trouble writing when asked to write,

or even when I want to write.

It’s something that just comes,

like rain,

when the  day before I had planned for sun.

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The Decision to Travel Wasn’t Quick or Thought Out; But There He Was

give me hope; happiness, heaven;

give me Alexander Supertramp

alone and accepting – always accept.

give me freedom, fun,  a fire in my heart;

give me Sam Gribley with Frightful

content and complete – always completing.

give me the sun, the tide, the views you’ve spoke of.

take me to where you’ve gone when you couldn’t take it anymore.

 

so soft spoken.

 

take me to the waters of Rio de Janeiro to see their moon and compare it to ours.

take me to the mountain top – Upper Wolfjaw, Whiteface, Rocky Peak Ridge.

take me to the oceans – blue, green, mirrored images of the the sky.

take me home.

 

 

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Communication without interpretation resulted in widespread silence or Complete and total reliance

Those sleepers, comfortable and sleeping,

The stars are slowing fading,

Try and keep one pinned to your wall.

Waiters, patient and waiting,

The sky is dark and the moon has gone home.

Neon sun shines down,

Waking the men in freight cars,

Warming the women

In the subway halls,

Igniting lazy lovers

In hazy morning covers.

We traveled with thieves, but we did it alone.

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Sparrow: In Fear and Flight – A Faux Ending

The Hawk packed his bags, pacing, eager to fly, ready to go –

“Oh my my, you’ve grown so very tall”

Dream scenes mixing with reality,

And longing for a beautiful farewell,

The Hawk stopped at the Owls nest to see if he had gotten any further with his

contemplation of death and the depth of the human soul,

But he hadn’t,

And the Hawk knew this would be the answer before knocking on the Owls door,

Who was calmly sitting in his double chair,

Ashtray on knee,

Blowing smoke out of his nose,

Deep in thought and brooding with melancholy,

Full of fatherly advice and o’so full of excitement and pain.

The visit was short.

And so the Hawk went to see the Bard of Bird Pond,

For the Crane would be a sight for sore eyes,

For a final time.

The same Crane who had led him to the decision to leave,

On a journey toward understanding and inner reflection

“It doesn’t matter; we are all going to die and it just doesn’t matter anymore”

The Crane said through sad eyes,

A long time ago,

And again for a final time.

The same Crane who now went from place to place brooding with melancholy and the confusion of knowing too much.

But it did matter, and it will always matter, and the Hawk understood that,

And was no longer hung-up on life’s wall mounts of thinking it didn’t matter.

The Hawk stopped at the Peacocks house,

Thought a moment,

And left,

Not knowing what he might have been expecting.

 

And the sun set,

And the Hawk sat on the curb,

Cigarette in hand,

Smoke in nose,

Knowing too much,

Contemplating what really mattered,

Wondering if his journey had made him a better man,

A lump sum of all he knew,

Or thought he knew,

And all the people he had met and would meet.

And the Sparrow saw,

And the Sparrow had no more to say.

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Tanka: 8: An Ode

and this is an ode,

sounding clever, sounding soft.

and it captures how

the sun feels of open road,

and the moon provides escape.

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Guest Check Poetry: 233678

The people on the street walk,

like they really have someplace to go.

But where else could there be,

besides here,

I don’t know.

I’ve heard of sites,

by plane,

by road.

Yet of all these places,

and people,

I sit alone.

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