Juveniles are likely the ones to do something stupid when the police are in pursuit. Climbing on railcars, parked where the lumber yard and stockyards are served, on a late spring evening as a self-imposed dare is something fun to get away with. But when your friend reports that the cops are coming and you scamper towards home, the adrenaline surge fuels stupid maneuvers. An abrupt U-turn at the edge of a building, I swung my left leg and made full-throttle contact with the rolled edge of metal feed trough resulting in a bone-deep gouge along my knee cap. I limped home, lifted my pant leg to see the blood stream being soaked up by my sock and to my surprise I rather calmly announced to my mother that I needed to go the hospital.
Slow Rolling railcars are a better pick,
If high-speed travel makes you sick.
Slow On The Uptake is confusing,
Slow But Sure, safe but unamusing.
Slow Markets make a stock broker mad,
Slow Release tablets - best to be had!
In the Slow Lane, you're just an onlooker.
Best “Slow” I know is in my Slow Cooker.
Timber growing up the mountain roots in silver and gold soil
The Indian Queen Mining Company lines shafts of western red cedar,
Westerner views hoodoos Painted Desert traveling to mine’s branch
Pony express rushes by galloping, “Wow!” Just to see her.
Apple dumpling served hot Western Steakhouse flair
Tasty yummy dessert warm sunset shows American west,
Stagecoach roars by, gold bars to Wells Fargo Bank
Family ranch abundant goods county fair, love distilling best.
Prospector explores desert mountain, mineral deposits found
North Star Gold Mining Company sends full sparkling mining cars,
Western Pacific Railroad Company delivers mine goods and lumber
Western honey mesquite greet miners riding railcars with gold bars.
Buffalo Gals Timber Company sending logs to mill for work
Logging builds, the west grows rustic running the saw hear shrill,
Rough cut logs stacked in railcar build a town
Using true grit gets her done western hoedown Heaven’s fill.
Railcars
Hugging tracks
Travelling very fast
Like bullets from guns
In Japan
nostalgia a nine-year old does come to honest by
no care for romance, no accompany
should the chance occur within
that strike that might strike that
similar something somewhere
that nine-year old out there
strides with legs we lost
for fumbles in his pocket for a match
well
he looks away and counts
railcars in a blip of a day dream
top that while you dollar value your day of late
penny for penny in the fumble
your hands already were too fat
and he beat you for tying his laces
*rib-b-it*
You somehow look as grown up as you are going to look, in that man's body.
Anthony.
A riddle of tattoos and feathered hair in cedar.
Leather, tailored pants and slim vests befitting European scholars with pipes, and fuzzy frazzled upward looks with
noses in barely readable books.
Would you meet me for an afternoon in Paris?
Water gardens and haciendas with exploding blooms and the sun for tea?
It's with innocent eyes that you seer the world.
One
Two
Three steps to the edge of old.
And still you giggle without drugs.
And still you snap energy glow lights in lime green veins and sing...
Pop
Pop
Pop...
You are the child that we should all protect and sleep as in our dreams.
You wake us from the agitation which might have been another mashed potato milk day.
Are you alive in Paris, or Rome, or Fuji?
It's with a certain electric, that we waver on streets and cobbles, unbeknownst
to sleepy tourists and railcars, just to satisfy our eyes with passing fancies and peanut brittle. Tattoo parlors and
broken glass mosaics in shop windows pressing our memories to age.
But you...
Young Anthony, young, young Anthony... we really should have tea.
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