#trucker
I drive the night because of open road.
My retreads are sounding strong.
Hauling cars up from New Orleans
Where I'm not sure that I belonged.
Traded whiskey for a woman
At a bar in Abilene.
Then a long haul up to Portland town
Helped along by methadrine.
There’s a lady there in Stumptown
She dances on the pole
Makes her pay in dollar bills
She's never ever home
Daylight fades and night descends
Men come, await their fate.
She ***** them dry and infects their soul,
Relights her lamp and waits…
She goes to church on Sunday.
Always comes in late.
She says a prayer, she sheds a tear,
puts food stamps in the plate.
Dropped my load down at the docks
there's a motel by the sea.
Homebase for my Peterbilt
That's parked out by the tree
Called her up, the kids are home.
I hear them laughining on the phone.
Grandma says she"s not around,
But she'll tell her I'm in town.
“Yea. tell her I'm in town again
And kiss the kids for me,
Gotta leave on Tuesday”.
Hung up and fell asleep.
The phone rang in the morning.
The call was short and sweet.
She had some things she had to do,
Didn’t think that we could meet.
Fueling up, the fog horns moan.
Red pills to feed the beast.
A woman left back in the fog.
A white line headed east.
Look at my life
Some say I've sinned.
My dreams were blown away
By the cruel ...
Highway Wind.
Oct 2, 2025
Oct 2, 2025 at 4:31 PM UTC
Rough wheels run circles
Around a static background
Passing the same horizon
Over and over again
Like some old cartoon
Driving in place
As he races to his next stop
To live unload his next drop
Early bird waiting hours plus
Hoping they can fit him in
So he can hit the road again
Before his electronic log
Locks him down for the day
He brings his paperwork
And waits
He pulls his tandem back
Then waits
Drops his trailer in the door
And waits
Rest stop gas station shower
On the road
Smoke stacks cough up
Black clouds
Yellow lines
Become yellow blurs
Another load down
Another pick up
The road rides him roughly
Home beckons him on
Fifteen hundred miles
To his own bed
Coffee break and **** stop
To clear his head
And the sunset runs seventy miles
An hour
While he pushes seventy-five
Two million miles down
Two million more to end his life
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 8:31 PM UTC
I don't know where, if it will end.
Refuse to voice or recommend.
To treat what ails us is pretend.
Slips through fingers apprehend.
To help more than to hurt,
reflexive sunny disposition
which can cradle sallow sleeping stoic pride.
Distinguishing the dirt,
collective run beside conviction;
acting ladle heavy, heaping, terrified.
Leave things better than you found them
Received our debtors stand; surround them.
I wonder if to soothe what ail,
under apprehension prevail.
Therein lies each us, our grail -
our demons sinking in each nail.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 10:20 PM UTC