Hobo Jungle
Hey, I heard there was a pool hustle in the works somewhere this way. If you two hobos want me to scoot on ahead and pair myself up with the dumbest, richest looking fellow in the place before you arrive, we can make it soas it looks natural to play a partner match, us against you. And I promise to play reeeeeeeal bad, if maybe I could partake of the whiskey afterwards. The thing is, there's no way you could possibly have any comprehension of how thirsty I am. And although that rumor's true that I've got hundred dollar bills in my bra and nylons and all over me, the truth is, it's just Monopoly money.
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San Diegan
We appreciate the offer to give the appearance of compromising your virtue, Daisy, but, as your brothers on the road, we tend to be protective. That pool hall is full of high rollers in blue blazers (on St. Paddy's day, no less) spending eighteen dollar bills and admiring themselves and their expensive little units in the mirror behind the bar. It's no place for a woman. Then again, that bunch wouldn't know one if she sashayed in and smacked one of them in the face. It's going to take some real guile to separate them from their money.
San
San
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Guest
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San Diegan
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Bindle Stiff
- Posts: 25
- Joined: Fri Mar 12, 2004 4:39 pm
- Location: Colorado
Thought I might try a poem. This one is rather new, so forgive it; it's young and might still need guidance. Cheers to all hobos.
PACKAGES
Those I have liked best in my life
Tend to buy beer by the case.
“It’s a simple thing,” they explained,
“You pay the bottle deposit just once.”
Maybe they believed life might have similar logic,
Something akin to this joyous simplicity:
You drink a beer, you replace the empty,
Draw out a full one, till all twenty-four bottles
Are done, neatly aligned in their metal-edged box,
Spent, ready to be replaced.
Most drunks have a song:
The song varies from week to week,
But they always seem to have a song ready:
On a juke box, or to wait for on the radio,
Or sometimes they can sing it, and just do.
Best cold dawn you’ll ever see
Is just under the Canadian border
From a boxcar’s open door. There’ll
Be a lighted Café across the road,
But if you run for it, the train leaves.
You know that, but there are those smells
In your mind—the coffee, bacon, biscuits;
The sigh of the waitress’s uniform as she
Brings that first steaming cup. You’ve
Never been this cold,
And dawn has never
Been so perfectly red.
We don’t have poets anymore.
We have career-minded brokers
Who write po-imes. Po-imes
Letting us know how affluent
They are by at least the seventh line,
About how they’ve secretly never
Left safety. And why would they?
But I know one. A poet.
He knew a woman—it still happens,
And what he did, he brought her
A thousand fireflies. How?
He had friends, and they all caught them,
Caged them, drove them, released them,
All inside her house. And when she
Came home he just stood there with this
Field of blushing love, a fog of
Living, glowing perfect moments
All pulsing around her rooms.
Can anything dance over a lawn
Like a firefly on a summer night?
Can anything dance in a heart like love?
Of course she left him.
Things call out. I hear them.
After dark when I walk the house
With my gut churning in the night light:
Those small seeds of electric yellow in hallways,
Not one a lightning bug, nothing alive here but me.
But we must not be bitter!—no one wants bitter,
Though it does nicely as hops in beer.
See, I turned the circle,
I closed the loop,
Like a good boy.
PACKAGES
Those I have liked best in my life
Tend to buy beer by the case.
“It’s a simple thing,” they explained,
“You pay the bottle deposit just once.”
Maybe they believed life might have similar logic,
Something akin to this joyous simplicity:
You drink a beer, you replace the empty,
Draw out a full one, till all twenty-four bottles
Are done, neatly aligned in their metal-edged box,
Spent, ready to be replaced.
Most drunks have a song:
The song varies from week to week,
But they always seem to have a song ready:
On a juke box, or to wait for on the radio,
Or sometimes they can sing it, and just do.
Best cold dawn you’ll ever see
Is just under the Canadian border
From a boxcar’s open door. There’ll
Be a lighted Café across the road,
But if you run for it, the train leaves.
You know that, but there are those smells
In your mind—the coffee, bacon, biscuits;
The sigh of the waitress’s uniform as she
Brings that first steaming cup. You’ve
Never been this cold,
And dawn has never
Been so perfectly red.
We don’t have poets anymore.
We have career-minded brokers
Who write po-imes. Po-imes
Letting us know how affluent
They are by at least the seventh line,
About how they’ve secretly never
Left safety. And why would they?
But I know one. A poet.
He knew a woman—it still happens,
And what he did, he brought her
A thousand fireflies. How?
He had friends, and they all caught them,
Caged them, drove them, released them,
All inside her house. And when she
Came home he just stood there with this
Field of blushing love, a fog of
Living, glowing perfect moments
All pulsing around her rooms.
Can anything dance over a lawn
Like a firefly on a summer night?
Can anything dance in a heart like love?
Of course she left him.
Things call out. I hear them.
After dark when I walk the house
With my gut churning in the night light:
Those small seeds of electric yellow in hallways,
Not one a lightning bug, nothing alive here but me.
But we must not be bitter!—no one wants bitter,
Though it does nicely as hops in beer.
See, I turned the circle,
I closed the loop,
Like a good boy.
Last edited by Tramp on Thu Mar 18, 2004 8:26 am, edited 1 time in total.
That a life will be spent gaining inches,
When this distance is read in miles.
When this distance is read in miles.
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Jackie Blue
Peter, why are you only a "guest?" Zip in, zip out. Yeah that's you.
David - your boss - if you're single, it sounds like a good match for you. Who knows?
I just walked two freaking miles in 80 degree heat, along a busy highway, sucking up those lovely fumes. Man, I'm parched! Duffy, you lovely Irish man! I'll plant meself at your feet for a dram of the gold!
Stiff, my fine friend, let's sing some songs from the old country. Yeah, it can be from this old country. Just not "Inagadadavida" or "She Bangs."
David - your boss - if you're single, it sounds like a good match for you. Who knows?
I just walked two freaking miles in 80 degree heat, along a busy highway, sucking up those lovely fumes. Man, I'm parched! Duffy, you lovely Irish man! I'll plant meself at your feet for a dram of the gold!
Stiff, my fine friend, let's sing some songs from the old country. Yeah, it can be from this old country. Just not "Inagadadavida" or "She Bangs."
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Bindle Stiff
- Posts: 25
- Joined: Fri Mar 12, 2004 4:39 pm
- Location: Colorado
It's a nice St Paddy's Day party!
Jackie, how 'bout sum uv them ol' Iron Butterfly tunes jus' to warm up then we can start singin' some uf thet gud Irish stuff like the Rocky Road ta Dublin an' stuff.
We'z knockin' a big dent in Duffies Gol' (TM).
Couple more hours an' we'z goin' be down ta seeds an' stems!
Nice hafin' everbudy back in a reseckable hobo camp.
Here's to ya!
Jackie, how 'bout sum uv them ol' Iron Butterfly tunes jus' to warm up then we can start singin' some uf thet gud Irish stuff like the Rocky Road ta Dublin an' stuff.
We'z knockin' a big dent in Duffies Gol' (TM).
Couple more hours an' we'z goin' be down ta seeds an' stems!
Nice hafin' everbudy back in a reseckable hobo camp.
Here's to ya!
Stiff
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Jackie Blue
Stiff, do you know "Waltz Across Texas?" Been humming it most of the day. We could dance if someone had a harmonica or a fiddle. Nice night for it. The campfire throws a complimentary light and the stars promise to be brilliant.
Tramp, poetry is in your eyes. You didn't have to say a word, but you did. Thank you for the inspiration. It takes us all to a nicer mental place.
Peter, I was just kidding! Come here and dance with me.
"Ah, alcohol...the cause of and cure for all of life's problems!" (Homer Simpson).
Tramp, poetry is in your eyes. You didn't have to say a word, but you did. Thank you for the inspiration. It takes us all to a nicer mental place.
Peter, I was just kidding! Come here and dance with me.
"Ah, alcohol...the cause of and cure for all of life's problems!" (Homer Simpson).
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