Hobo Jungle

[Tramp]

A man walks a thousand miles to start of a small fire in the O-gauge dullard wilderness. The flames start to crawl over the snapped twigs. One blue tip. Two hands. One train whistle. Who knows?

[clouser]

Thanks Tramp,
I dont post much, but I had to say thank you, parts of that poem ring true

My dad died when I was 20, I had always wanted to sit in the bar watch the Eagles play, drink beer and eat wings with him.


clouser

[Tramp]

Here in Maine, we've got these Red Sox playoffs. I don't remember the name of the the other team. Bankees, Stankees, something like that. It's a trying time for us losers. But we keep hoping--who knows why? Anyway, thought of this poem. As most of you know, Ruth was a Sox. Once.

DREAMS

Nights, busier than most days,
Certainly more violent, more sexual,
More star-focking historical.
Last night it was the Babe and me
On the bench of the house he built,
Chewing on cigars, trading tales;
The Babe rising to clobber one
Now and then, the long balls lifting
Into the cobalt ceiling of the stadium;
The Babe smiling, sauntering back
Handing me his polished bat.

But the ones where I give fair warning
Just to be left alone that no one heeds
And then the blood and the mashing bone
My fists carve away the malice
Till I have impaled the bodies
With gruesome death
And awake in sweat.

Or the best ones where
Suddenly I know I am dreaming
And quickly strip down, then leap
Through a massive window high up
The glass and mullions parting
And I fly low over lush land
Gently masturbating, scouting women,
Entering towns, lingerie shops, bars,
The tiled harem bathhouses of Sodom,
My horn like a pulsing purple joy stick,
The women eager, abandoned, lewd,
Goddesses—though have yet to
Make vulnerable blonde Marilyn
Materialize.

Or the more relaxed flying dreams
Where it begins with levitation and
Then I project missile-like toward heaven,
Wonderful way above the tree line
To soar over great open ravines, Once
Through endless ornate rooms of a castle,
It always seems so ridiculously possible
(Why haven't I realized this sooner?)
Or the early leaping ones that required
Long lifting jumps to distance gravity,
To out distance the forever ground, then
To lose altitude as you awaken.

I walk across a town square, there
James Dean hunched next to his Porsche.
"I can drive this as good as you can,"
I taunt, and we alternate the wheel,
Rocketing the silver car up back roads,
Under canopies of vivid green leaves
in slanting strobing light.
Later I tell Dean I must return
To the other place as he nods, but
Wishes to send me back with a word,
The most important word he says,
A word as a gift, the word
Feel.

[RRRocky]

I remember Ball Four, Bouton's insider's view of baseball and the story about Mickey Mantle and others sneaking up to the roof of a hotel to scope out (with binoculars) some unsuspecting ladies in an open window high up across the street.

I can't imagine Ted Williams or Jim Lonborg or Luis Tiant or Bill (Spaceman Lee) doing that. The Yanks have had the wife swapping teammates, and the other side was the baseball business narrowed down to a corporate science. The Beantown Mob had grown up by the time they left the minors, they were not the perpetual infantile playthings of a syndicate or a tyrant of a boss like Steinbrenner.

All the more reason to root for them not to "root" thru the available talent and groupies but accomplish something at the top level of this sport.Bull Durham was great fun, I just hope the Cosmic wheel turns and the Yankees get stopped short once again.

train reference: no, not that kind of "train" like the Hell's Angels and others pull, but (sheeesh!)
"Pride of the Yankees" had that neat scene with Ruth and others talking shop on the trainrides between cities on the schedule.

[San Diegan]

Flying dreams. How did you know, Tramp?

San

[Tramp]

San, how could I not know?

I guess my staying away from this forum hasn't helped it much. This forum is as dead as Johnny Damon's bat.

[jperrine6]

Tramp:

Glad to see ya back...

JIm

[Will]

Just wandering through camp. Damn nice poem, Tramp, as usual. You are a fine poet.

"lifting Into the cobalt ceiling of the stadium"

I am a Yankee fan heading up to Boston on Sunday. Will they still be playing?

Is such a thing as really just too much hair?

How much facial hair is enough? And what is that Paul Bunyon thing Millar is featuring?

Later, they're dragging me off to work camp.

[Tramp]

Hey, Will. Where have you been?

The hair looks pretty damn stupid when they lose, doesn't it?

[San Diegan]

Well, now, Will. It's a fine thing to see you pass through here. Wish you could stay for a beer and some chat.

This baseball has gotten pretty serious up there. Would have never knew it, but, live and learn.

Work camp? Is that a Martha Stewart kind of deal? Hope you take a nice rest cure in the Hamptons after the time in stir.

San

[Daisy]

Hey. Martha's in here with Tramp and I, same tickertape on the chest, same nervous looks over the shoulder. But don't worry. We're taking good care of her. Aside from the disease thing.


Yo Jon. Still waiting on those choppers outa here sweetheart. HELLO!

[2railjon]

SORRY Daisy, me and Elvis are fighting over the blow-up doll in the basement. I'll be right back. I don't know what the hell she see's in his dumb ***.

[jperrine6]

Daisy:

Thanks for the present for the little one and I sent you a PM.

Thanks again it was wondeful of you to do this.

Jim

[Daisy]

Jim, my pleasure. Elephants are purrported to be good luck, they sure have been to me. (I have no idea what the fock I mean by that.) But anyway, I wish as much good luck as possible on your dear new sweet thing.

Jon, hope you're making out well with Elvis's dumbass. Or something like that. And no need to rescue Tramp, Martha and me anymore, we're in focking heaven in here. I mean YOU HAVE NO IDEA!

[2railjon]

It's ok now. I traded dumb *** a can of cheez-whiz for my bitch back. Whats all the flap about Martha anyhow? Where the hell is the "game" cause it ain't on regular TV playing down here. And I ain't paying for cable. Who's on first? Honest, no shit.
If you step off a Greyhound down here baby, you have just been transported. Or else the corporate "dickheads" got it on pay-per-view.
I swore to God I would never, ever follow another baseball game after that last strike by the players, but here my dumb-ass is sucked back in it again.