Jon, the whistle is smoking rather energetically as well. Always a poor sign, but I see the stack is smoke free. 10,000.00? Mother of God, artists do have illusions, don’t they?
Clouser, there is a sister. At least you're gentlemanly enough not to request D herself. (Certain hobos might consider that a modicum of cool could be warranted on occasion.)
We’re having one hell of a blow here. The wicker rocker just sailed across the yard. More beer! Can’t work on the house today.
Hobo Jungle
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I always thought it might be fun to meet you guys but probably not at Halloween! LMAO 
Last edited by rogruth on Sun Oct 29, 2006 11:27 am, edited 1 time in total.
roger
I support thread drift.
If God didn't want women to be looked at, He would have made 'em ugly. RAH
I support thread drift.
If God didn't want women to be looked at, He would have made 'em ugly. RAH
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Forum Moderator
- Site Admin
- Posts: 1346
- Joined: Thu Jul 17, 2003 9:38 pm
- Location: NJ
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P&R Pete
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P&R Pete
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ANG retired
- Posts: 1977
- Joined: Fri Jun 16, 2006 10:41 am
- Location: Garage of Doom
Okay, ya step away from the Jungle for a while and a statememnt like this is made
Anyway.
Kurt.
Sorry I missed ya at Altoona today, I was on the way, when I gots a whiff of raw gas.
Seems the Heep decided to blow out a fuel injector, making for a HELL of a fire hazard.
So, rather than checking out trains, I was under the hood, changing an injector!
Forum Moderator wrote:Actually, it was the guy with the sheep that's a bit over the edge.
Bill
Anyway.
Kurt.
Sorry I missed ya at Altoona today, I was on the way, when I gots a whiff of raw gas.
Seems the Heep decided to blow out a fuel injector, making for a HELL of a fire hazard.
So, rather than checking out trains, I was under the hood, changing an injector!
Seems like in might be time for a couple poems. I've got a Halloween poem for you hobos if one of you'd kindly remind me to post it. But here are these, not the greatest, but maybe readable. Two fall (October) poems.
THIS
The Kancamagus Highway (Route 112) is a narrow road that
twists and switchbacks from Lincoln, NH to Conway, NH through the White
Mountain National Forest. It can attract a lot of slow-moving tourists
some parts of the year. Kancamagus Pass has an elevation of 2,860 feet.
50 cars were passed
On the Kancamagus Highway
On a rainy October morning.
The mist clung fluorescent green
In the spruce, the fog rustled
Across the ledge rock, my old car
Fishtailed as the big V-8
Bit into the wet tar,
And I,
I reached back
Into the fresh case of ale
Hidden under my leather jacket,
Broke open the cardboard top
And I
Drank warm 50s and passed cars.
I hitchhiked this road at 16
Huddled in the open back
Of a supercharged El Camino,
I caressed a worn Rambler
In the middle of the night
Through these passes so drunk
That to open the Ballantine quarts
I'd stop and whack the tops off on posts
Because it amused me to drink from the
Jagged glass;
Nary a cut,
I was 17.
A year later,
I terrified my godmother
In her Le Mans convertible
Showing her what the car could do,
I still feel a bit bad about that.
I used this road once
During early winter,
(the state of New Hampshire
had an APB out on me)
And during those night runs
(that tense frozen stillness
like a hypnotic embrace)
The road was empty.
It's not empty now.
I pass 12 cars in 1
Thundering lurching thrust
As a massive camper turns off.
And for a while clear black pavement
And I dance my old car through
The rain pure colors
Of all I can feel.
Listen, this is my focking life
Listen, this is my life
This is my life
This is life
This life
This
THIS
MAIL
Across the top of New England,
A letter travels through known towns
And along well-remembered roads,
Past downed leaves and first wood smoke.
Inside read a poem,
A poem about spring wind in laundry,
His wife's delicate undergarments
Taunting him, fluttering like frustrated
Desire, like the uncertainty of being.
He's put his fist through the windshield of his truck.
And I with one tense
Back and forth stroke
Have erased her name,
From his, in my address book.
What else can I do?
THIS
The Kancamagus Highway (Route 112) is a narrow road that
twists and switchbacks from Lincoln, NH to Conway, NH through the White
Mountain National Forest. It can attract a lot of slow-moving tourists
some parts of the year. Kancamagus Pass has an elevation of 2,860 feet.
50 cars were passed
On the Kancamagus Highway
On a rainy October morning.
The mist clung fluorescent green
In the spruce, the fog rustled
Across the ledge rock, my old car
Fishtailed as the big V-8
Bit into the wet tar,
And I,
I reached back
Into the fresh case of ale
Hidden under my leather jacket,
Broke open the cardboard top
And I
Drank warm 50s and passed cars.
I hitchhiked this road at 16
Huddled in the open back
Of a supercharged El Camino,
I caressed a worn Rambler
In the middle of the night
Through these passes so drunk
That to open the Ballantine quarts
I'd stop and whack the tops off on posts
Because it amused me to drink from the
Jagged glass;
Nary a cut,
I was 17.
A year later,
I terrified my godmother
In her Le Mans convertible
Showing her what the car could do,
I still feel a bit bad about that.
I used this road once
During early winter,
(the state of New Hampshire
had an APB out on me)
And during those night runs
(that tense frozen stillness
like a hypnotic embrace)
The road was empty.
It's not empty now.
I pass 12 cars in 1
Thundering lurching thrust
As a massive camper turns off.
And for a while clear black pavement
And I dance my old car through
The rain pure colors
Of all I can feel.
Listen, this is my focking life
Listen, this is my life
This is my life
This is life
This life
This
THIS
Across the top of New England,
A letter travels through known towns
And along well-remembered roads,
Past downed leaves and first wood smoke.
Inside read a poem,
A poem about spring wind in laundry,
His wife's delicate undergarments
Taunting him, fluttering like frustrated
Desire, like the uncertainty of being.
He's put his fist through the windshield of his truck.
And I with one tense
Back and forth stroke
Have erased her name,
From his, in my address book.
What else can I do?
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