Tramp, And I thought it was just me! I sure miss the old boy hanging out here.
Hobo Jungle
Give it up!
I am not the only one ,I think 
-
P&R Pete
Here's one I like. Heat, hit-and-run, frustration, redemption, love, beer.
This one, and the Dewey.
BLESS THE OPEN DOOR
We sit on the burning bench seat
Of a 1970 Oldsmobile Cutlass,
One side torn like a plowed furrow,
That side sewn closed by a truck.
(She had walked back one night,
Found a chrome strip on the street,
Found a door handle half a block away,
These pieces seemed familiar,
Shiny trinkets in a nightmare.)
And now with me we sit
on this hot hot bench seat,
Past used car lots we drive,
Limp by in the wounded Cutlass
Searching for a southbound ride,
Evanston, Illinois to Laredo, Texas
Then Mexico, the land that draws dreams.
The August sun is a flare of desire,
The August heat a rising of blood,
My eyes lost in the bent neon
Of the bar signs singing in the shade.
And I turn to her—long red hair
Her pale skin glistening, moist
And I say: how about, how 'bout
A cold glass of draft beer.
And everything I know, all I feel
Is in this moment of passing
From the scorched pavement of the street
Through the open door of the barroom:
Into the empty afternoon barroom,
Into the large tidy clean barroom,
Into the cool shade of the barroom,
The fan-strummed quiet of the barroom
Smelling faintly of everything—
Of cleaning fluid, tobacco, humanity.
The long row of ordered stools,
The creak and scrape as we mount,
As we mount the joy of possibility,
My eyes released to the darkness,
My sticky arms resting on the cool dry wood.
And then the tap handle pulled back,
And the two glasses pearled with moisture,
And our hands reaching out touching wet cold
The anticipation of the first foamy sip.
My body slowly ebbing the irritation
Of scalded used cars and greedy salesmen;
I want to yell for just being,
For the fact that poetry can exist,
But instead I quietly look at her—
At the dripping glass at her lips,
At the way south waiting between us,
The burning Cutlass left in the sun.
This one, and the Dewey.
BLESS THE OPEN DOOR
We sit on the burning bench seat
Of a 1970 Oldsmobile Cutlass,
One side torn like a plowed furrow,
That side sewn closed by a truck.
(She had walked back one night,
Found a chrome strip on the street,
Found a door handle half a block away,
These pieces seemed familiar,
Shiny trinkets in a nightmare.)
And now with me we sit
on this hot hot bench seat,
Past used car lots we drive,
Limp by in the wounded Cutlass
Searching for a southbound ride,
Evanston, Illinois to Laredo, Texas
Then Mexico, the land that draws dreams.
The August sun is a flare of desire,
The August heat a rising of blood,
My eyes lost in the bent neon
Of the bar signs singing in the shade.
And I turn to her—long red hair
Her pale skin glistening, moist
And I say: how about, how 'bout
A cold glass of draft beer.
And everything I know, all I feel
Is in this moment of passing
From the scorched pavement of the street
Through the open door of the barroom:
Into the empty afternoon barroom,
Into the large tidy clean barroom,
Into the cool shade of the barroom,
The fan-strummed quiet of the barroom
Smelling faintly of everything—
Of cleaning fluid, tobacco, humanity.
The long row of ordered stools,
The creak and scrape as we mount,
As we mount the joy of possibility,
My eyes released to the darkness,
My sticky arms resting on the cool dry wood.
And then the tap handle pulled back,
And the two glasses pearled with moisture,
And our hands reaching out touching wet cold
The anticipation of the first foamy sip.
My body slowly ebbing the irritation
Of scalded used cars and greedy salesmen;
I want to yell for just being,
For the fact that poetry can exist,
But instead I quietly look at her—
At the dripping glass at her lips,
At the way south waiting between us,
The burning Cutlass left in the sun.
Last edited by P&R Pete on Wed Feb 28, 2007 10:05 pm, edited 1 time in total.
RR Nip is a 7 ounce Rolling Rock. It had a smaller bottle that was lovely to drink on extremely hot days. I used to keep the Nips in the freezer for about an hour before upending. Same green bottle and silkscreened label. They called them Nips or maybe even Ponies.
That a life will be spent gaining inches,
When this distance is read in miles.
When this distance is read in miles.
-
P&R Pete
Jon, if you make 'er back up, we may have to do 'er again at the MSI.
The cutlass and this one are by Tramp.
This one's about my favorite.
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.
Oh, baby!
The cutlass and this one are by Tramp.
This one's about my favorite.
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.
Oh, baby!
Aw Yes .....................a little nip..................... 
..........Here are a few pictures of the RR Nips..........................................
This is your 12 and 7 oz bottles...............................
Here is a real old 7 oz bottle................................
And we also had cans in 7 oz.................................
On the back of the 7 oz bottles was the horse head and under it read..............A Little Nip............................
hev
..........Here are a few pictures of the RR Nips..........................................
This is your 12 and 7 oz bottles...............................
Here is a real old 7 oz bottle................................
And we also had cans in 7 oz.................................
On the back of the 7 oz bottles was the horse head and under it read..............A Little Nip............................
hev
If you want to find history, follow the train man..................
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