Pete? Yours?
ONE DAY
Can a Nuts . . 30
Beer . . . . . . . 25
Schoop . . . . . 35
Shot . . . . . . . 65
Let me speak of the past:
Let me walk into a freight yard
Into the afternoon summer sun,
Across the sandy heat, the stench of tar,
Of creosote, a tired diesel shunting,
The thistle and the gravel;
Middle of the country—1980
Awaiting a 10 PM call westbound.
Let me walk through the open door,
Under the neon of the Dewey Hotel and Bar
(Last true track-side workingman's bar),
Let me hoist a schoop of cold Point,
Let the barman pour out a can of peanuts
Scooped from the wooden barrel,
Let me scatter the shells on the floor,
Let me feel the breeze through the door,
Let someone buy me a shot of whiskey
Because my smile is as clean as a shout;
Let me just sit there and drink,
The stacked cases of beer at the back
Almost reaching the ceiling.
Let me wait for the first outbound freight
Of a western run. And then
I will stumble out to the yard
And board a wood-floored empty boxcar
And sit against my pack in the door as a
Thunderstorm arrives across the darkness.
And as the freight rumbles toward the west
I will lean against the side of the doorway
That cool rainy wind against my face
And I will see the red and green neon
Of the Dewey Hotel and Bar sign
Dancing in the wet night street.
Jon? I'm looking for the dad one. Will this hold you for a few minutes?
HOT CHROME
One morning
She just pulled up her dress
And kind of sat on the chrome bumper,
Leaning against the chrome grill
So that her pussy just touched
The hot chrome,
So that the very bottom of her slit
Just touched it, and you could see
The reflection of her pussy lips
In the polished chrome.
I kept thinking how hot
It must have been on her ***,
Because the sun had been up awhile.
And then there came this little trickle
A shiny tear that very slowly moved
From her pink skin onto the chrome.
Well, Jon got three very cold
Longneck bottles of beer
Out of the cooler, and opened them,
And the three of us drank the beer
And Jon and I kept looking at
That pussy against the chrome.
It wasn't that it was too hot
to do anything—it was just
That it was nice, the three of us
Just doing that.
Jon, is it this one? Damn me if I could find it.
SOME EVENINGS
Poet found unconscious on Main Street.
"He looked like a shooting star in front of my headlights."
Forgive this wicked world for being so beautiful,
Forgive the madness coursing within my blood,
Forestall my inexorable return to dull normalcy, but
Fade the recollection of these few perfect moments,
So I may live with at least a half-stilled heart.
All that I have suffered,
The pain of that—now—
Drawn like a splinter from a hand,
Against this summer evening.
To walk down the hill to the harbor at dusk,
This century or older Main Street,
This New England brick and glass,
As the pale green stroke
of harbor heralds like a call.
I pass my local and Friday night pulses within;
The owner launches a bar rag at the door,
At my grinning face through the screen,
And the bartender comes to ask,
"Hey, are you coming back?"
(He'll burrow a few bottles of ale
into the ice as a gesture.)
And I walk out on the docks at high tide,
I walk to the furthest dock to the setting sun,
And I use a cold metal cleat as an opium pillow,
And I hear a bagpipe angling across the bay.
(This sky over the water can not be written.)
I give you this poem because my father died young,
I give you this poem because my father has not seen,
What I wish to show him. I give you this poem because
My father and I have never sat in my local together,
Because when I sit alone drinking I pour a beer
Into the ground so my father won't be thirsty.
I give you this poem because
Nothing will ever be the same again.
I walk back up the hill.
And turn in at the bar door.
I hand the bartender a ten
And ask him to ring the bell twice.
It rings like a poured out beer for the dead.
Or, this one?
MAYBE
There is an object somewhere,
A part of you since birth,
You always know where it is
Like a compass to north;
Your father held it fondly for years
In his since dead hands as you fondle it
Now, your palms across the patina of
Wood or metal or hide. For
You have enshrined it with the sense
That somehow within, is the wisdom of
All that you long for and
All you have let pass by.
Allow me a bar as a sanctum,
Where the neon torments quietly
With its lazy bent beauty and
The beer sign turns so slowly
It almost stills the beating heart;
The bar back lies so calm in darkness
Like all twice-fucked lovers,
The barman so coolly cordial,
The barmaid so coolly sensual,
And the forever jukebox thumps out
Those same moist, drying songs as
We order again and again:
"Oh, so hard to leave,
So easy to stay . . ."
The booth wood firm against the back,
The body seeps languid with the clock,
For here the door might open to eternity
An angel gliding in from the mist,
Or be closed again with certainty
As the finished leave for home.
But maybe against all odds,
My lost father will walk
Through this barroom door,
And I'll nod to the barman
Who will know my father's drink,
And I'll place into my father's hand
The object—carefully preserved
And tenderly polished—
And my dad will smile.
Hobo Jungle
SOME EVENINGS
Poet found unconscious on Main Street.
"He looked like a shooting star in front of my headlights."
Forgive this wicked world for being so beautiful,
Forgive the madness coursing within my blood,
Forestall my inexorable return to dull normalcy, but
Fade the recollection of these few perfect moments,
So I may live with at least a half-stilled heart.
All that I have suffered,
The pain of that—now—
Drawn like a splinter from a hand,
Against this summer evening.
To walk down the hill to the harbor at dusk,
This century or older Main Street,
This New England brick and glass,
As the pale green stroke
of harbor heralds like a call.
I pass my local and Friday night pulses within;
The owner launches a bar rag at the door,
At my grinning face through the screen,
And the bartender comes to ask,
"Hey, are you coming back?"
(He'll burrow a few bottles of ale
into the ice as a gesture.)
And I walk out on the docks at high tide,
I walk to the furthest dock to the setting sun,
And I use a cold metal cleat as an opium pillow,
And I hear a bagpipe angling across the bay.
(This sky over the water can not be written.)
I give you this poem because my father died young,
I give you this poem because my father has not seen,
What I wish to show him. I give you this poem because
My father and I have never sat in my local together,
Because when I sit alone drinking I pour a beer
Into the ground so my father won't be thirsty.
I give you this poem because
Nothing will ever be the same again.
I walk back up the hill.
And turn in at the bar door.
I hand the bartender a ten
And ask him to ring the bell twice.
It rings like a poured out beer for the dead.
Tramp, That was it. Beautiful. Thanks for sharing once more.
Poet found unconscious on Main Street.
"He looked like a shooting star in front of my headlights."
Forgive this wicked world for being so beautiful,
Forgive the madness coursing within my blood,
Forestall my inexorable return to dull normalcy, but
Fade the recollection of these few perfect moments,
So I may live with at least a half-stilled heart.
All that I have suffered,
The pain of that—now—
Drawn like a splinter from a hand,
Against this summer evening.
To walk down the hill to the harbor at dusk,
This century or older Main Street,
This New England brick and glass,
As the pale green stroke
of harbor heralds like a call.
I pass my local and Friday night pulses within;
The owner launches a bar rag at the door,
At my grinning face through the screen,
And the bartender comes to ask,
"Hey, are you coming back?"
(He'll burrow a few bottles of ale
into the ice as a gesture.)
And I walk out on the docks at high tide,
I walk to the furthest dock to the setting sun,
And I use a cold metal cleat as an opium pillow,
And I hear a bagpipe angling across the bay.
(This sky over the water can not be written.)
I give you this poem because my father died young,
I give you this poem because my father has not seen,
What I wish to show him. I give you this poem because
My father and I have never sat in my local together,
Because when I sit alone drinking I pour a beer
Into the ground so my father won't be thirsty.
I give you this poem because
Nothing will ever be the same again.
I walk back up the hill.
And turn in at the bar door.
I hand the bartender a ten
And ask him to ring the bell twice.
It rings like a poured out beer for the dead.
Tramp, That was it. Beautiful. Thanks for sharing once more.
Running that red block Charlie.
-
P&R Pete
-
P&R Pete
Oh Hell!
I'm so loaded, I was sittin' in BACK of Gomer's, thinking I was locked out and the place was closed up tight. Then I heard those strains of "White Trash Christmas", and wandered out front here to find where them was comin' from.
That song brings a tear to my eye with it's fond tribute to ol' highrail there!
I'm so loaded, I was sittin' in BACK of Gomer's, thinking I was locked out and the place was closed up tight. Then I heard those strains of "White Trash Christmas", and wandered out front here to find where them was comin' from.
That song brings a tear to my eye with it's fond tribute to ol' highrail there!
-
P&R Pete
-
P&R Pete
Nope, enjoying a chocolate covered cherry right now. (That's a black and tan made with Sam Adams Cherry Wheat and Guinness.)
When you make those, you have to open a bottle and a can, so you have to have them in pairs.
BRB...have to go pour the second one.
When you make those, you have to open a bottle and a can, so you have to have them in pairs.
BRB...have to go pour the second one.
GT Fan
Grand Trunk Western
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the Good Track road
Grand Trunk Western
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the Good Track road
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