Tina was a Good Woman

Tina was a smart woman, unfortionaly she didn’t know who he was.
BoxCarBob,
Just outside Nebraska

These Tracks are Magnetic

I’ve rolled through so many towns that I cant even remember. It must be the soda and rubbing alcohol. Some have even called me a criminal, even a semi-league extortionist. But I say to you, so what! I’m not a hero, not even in my own mind.

Only a war hero can be a prick part of the time and I fall sort of even that. My life screams something out of Nabokov. If only I could get my voice back. It’s been eight days since I’ve seen anyone along these tracks.

I once saw a man beat another hobo to the brink os death outside of Denver. He looked at me and I looked at him. I’ll admit I said what any other student of Darwin would say. “If you don’t want those socks, I’ll take’em.”

Loose Shadows

I want her; a little daughter of my own. Not to keep of course.

I want to tell her that everything was once good. I want to tell her that there was a time when fear was the only thing to fear; now we have each other to fear. Not just each other, but our own mind.

I would be well off, maybe. How would I explain to her the last five years, let alone the last five minutes?

I might just let her figure it out for herself. That’s what I did after all. I might try to explain that there are things not to be understood for two hundred years. Maybe then a loose gray haired man will write a book about me. He will have the answers. Unfortunately I will be dead, so will my daughter.

I’d like to tell her that there’s fact and truth in this world, nothing more. Facts are only that. Loose numbers and quotations on a page, right they are but their also lifeless. Truth is was we choose to be fact, merely shadows in the back of our mind.

Fact is; I don’t have a daughter.

Last Call of the Dog Boys

Today it took two thousand hours to download the two thousand porn stars which in the mean time took two thousand years in the making… Saint John of the cross told Lulu Saint John in a back ally, about the err of her ways.. She bowed her head and gave a prayer offering in equal to two thousand lap daces… from dirty old men in plaid shirts…

Now alone again sitting in the pile of useless protoplasm ten million of Americas finest, who got strapped without a church membership are pumping semi-valley in effort that their favorite beat poet would not die, but pass away into the other world shouting limericks and rebuttals of political leaders and church goers…

Men who have rode in golf carts and have the race card in their back pocket, spill their cold soles on late night T.V. without and recess from their past insurrections… fearing no evil, and seeing only the smut of their own inner demons, fearing it is to soon to change and long off to repent…

Utopia of a Volvo Generation

Don’t look at me you downtown fiend.. don’t ask me where your children are.. I know where they are, but I wont tell you… they begged me not to…

Your two piece suite and your roaring economy can take care of it’s self… I don’t care, go away.
I don’t eat your fast-food… tell me the truth do you really care where your children are?

Push me a little harder and I might tell you…I’m corrupting them with their own minds… I feed the trash music and trash T.V…. I taught them the Koran, Marx and the ensemble of prime time T.V.

Your children are safe with me… why should I tell you where they are…the same piece of pine tree that your father and father before that just wont do the job anymore… go away, don’t bother us.

I taught them to love the fags, count to ten and watch public television… I taught the white girls to love black men and I taught the white boys how to deal with it… healing their wounds with an un-holy trio of Bono, Dylan and soft play blues.

Do you really care where your children are… I told them your t-shirt and leather jacket cool can burn in hell… I taught them in every other white picket fence is a wife beater and a commandment breaker… burning in his own lust for a thirteen year old girl and a 1,400 foot ranch style…

Do you really want to know where your children are?

How Naked the Coat Stand

The coast stand is always changing. In the winter it breads heavy

coats, wool gloves and loose over sized hats. Spring brings lighter

over coats and the occasional umbrella. In the summer the coat

stand is alone, naked. Maybe a baseball cap and a friends leather

jacket. In the fall it slowly starts all over again. Styles change, a

colorful sweater, a Halloween mask from the latest horror movie.

When sad days came the coat stand was full. When the funeral

came the coat stand was full with everyone’s best black suite and

the occasional woman’s black cape. When that sad day came to a

close the coat stand drew bare once again. Seasons change, we

change. But the coat stand always stays the same.

Loosing Family

It’s when the night draws close that I get the fear. The graying of the sky above, watching it slowly decay into blackness. All of my dreams and loves which have fled me so many years ago, come back at that moment just before the sky falls away.

I sit back wherever I am, wanting to know how it could have been. Loosing family and friends, always looking for new family but almost always turning up short. The short conversations I have are always fleeting. Once and again I will come across someone from my not so distant past, the wonder and distinction they put on me. “Bob, hey Bob, nice to see you.” “Gee your doing well.”

Look; be it true, I’ll eat out of a can, box or dumpster; just give me my family back. Because nothing is worse then a stab in the heart.

Bad for you

Little girl, don’t you know I’m no good for you. You really should know better. Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you know lies. And my eyes, little girl, their not brown, their blue, blue, blue as you.

I watched mother die eating a tuna sandwich. I didn’t laugh and I didn’t cry. I just waited for dear old dad to come by, But he never came.

I once capitulated to a photograph of Eva Braun and I gratified my self to who? None other then you. Oh little girl you really should know better, I’m just bad for you.

Ode to linoleum flooring

I love the word linoleum. I love the way the word slips off your tong, use it anytime and it will sure bring you right back up pronto. Ah yes, linoleum is what makes me tick. I would die for the word linoleum, I really, really would. If I knew that I must go so linoleum could stay I would go without question.

On the other hand I hate linoleum, I know I said I love the word linoleum but I really hate real linoleum, I hate it with everything that I am, I hate the way it sounds. I hate when you walk on it barefoot and it peels of your foot with the sounds of sticky tack. I hate the way it shines, I hate to look at it, I hate the ways it feels. I hate it so much that my hate turns into jet back ooze that runs down my forehead and if it should hit the ground, may nothing grow there for ten thousand years. Yes that’s how much I hate Linoleum.

LOST