Speak of the arrows which collapse unfaded through the gates of gated gratuities
Expansive perpetuity
Leading to the loose leaf paper falling from empty trees in the dead of an autumnal night
Moonlight,
Clouded contact lenses

Mills billowing, malls bellowing
"Open for busy-ness! Open for busy-ness!"

Unzipping jackets with a smile that says
"From the ends of endings, I have always begun with an eternal grin while you slept on my knees and I dreamed of things smaller than the precipice of the period at the end of this sentence."

This never loved that
And that never loved this
Because they soon discovered 'This' was not this, and 'That' was not that
They were all There together, and discovered an 8 kicked sideways was an honesty beyond promises
And angrily, I remember wondering what had ever come over the all of us that wanted nothing more to do with anger

Had we stormed off in all directions, reading to seek in veins for a blood that was unfounded in the deadly hallows of happy mathematics?
Or were we simply throwing words together in the hopes of sounding surreal?

Sometimes I feel psuedo when I write, when I know I'm quite as real as anyone else.
I just need to struggle with the words more honestly, I suppose.

Perhaps I need to struggle more honestly with myself.
As Kerouac said,
“My whole wretched life swam before my weary eyes, and I realized no matter what you do it's bound to be a waste of time in the end so you might as well go mad.”

I need to go mad.

I need to quit my job and be here and all over here without a worry for the ideas
Yesterday, tomorrow
It is only ever today.

It doesn't need to make sense. It doesn't need to oblige my mother and father with a proper philosophical argument as to why I want to be here, because all they've ever been is 'there,' with the best intentions at heart I know, but without ever coming back down to Earth and letting their worries waft away like the smell of fresh, metallic rain during the Ides of March.

They failed the exam of the lilies which did not accept the parental "this is the way it is."
It is only the way it is because we are too cowardly to endorse our wildest dreams.

We do not wish upon stars, and if we do, it is because we wish upon those stars to help us get out of there, when all we have to do to escape there is to be here like a sudden clash of thunder upon a bobby-pin that has been pricked into the arm out of an innocent curiosity which all the There-Afters would call strange, while the Here-Nows would smile and nod at such beautiful sincerity.

At such pristine reality.

All the logical arguments my father confers upon me during our Grand Cosmic Debates always feel gently serious. He does not wish to convert me, nor to convince me.

He simply tries to pull me gently back into his reality, which sits reinforced by the rest of the global nay-sayers and There-Afters.

Why is it that my parents never had the courage to go mad?

Why was it nothing but a literary curiosity to them?

Why do they still continue to believe that one cannot simply run off into the sunset with a cosmic sense of reckless abandon?


The human race is nothing but a grand conviction.
The words themselves look to say, "Now, here here young one! You are a part of our great label. You owe us. We have been measuring since the day of your birth."
It's like we are born, and hopped through hoops until satisfaction meets the empty stomach to tell it that it must be full. So we struggle to fill, but it always becomes empty again. We seek to devour and consume and listen to the creased minds of our parents as they confer to us their common notion of sense which truly senses nothing beyond nonsense.

All of this makes me feel like I'm jogging on a sidewalk of soap.

And I'm sleepy.

We all work too hard, even when we're not at work.

We feel the affluenzic pull of occupation.

Not because we occupy our occupations,
but because our occupations occupy us.

I am a Cosmic Hobbyist

For the infinite round of nowever and always again.

What is it about a bus?
For the life of me, what is all the fuss?
Well for starters, a bus design like no other
The craftsmanship in variation being another
The open road in a child’s eyes with bus wheels of highway just
However becoming a knowledgeable hobbyist being a must
The hound dog stretched out on a bus as kid would often pass in front of me by
In a young kid’s fascinating mind of oh my
The hound bus seemed to move faster than I could speak
Being a lover of animals for me this was a treat
Then I familiarized myself with the silver and gold of Continental Trailways
It was the Silver and Golden Eagle having their own distinguished structure with its own meaning
The royal red carpet treatment of the Golden Eagle Five Star Luxury Service
A Hostess On-Board with Stereo Music that could be heard
My eyes were all amazed with all that came with travelling on an interstate bus
Later I was venturing out with having my own personal collection of 2,000 plus toy scale models
It was Macy’s and my Aunt for giving me my glance of a toy scale school bus which opened my preservation in exploring buses more
Well with a few tot tactics, my Aunt was forced to buy me that toy school bus
As a tot, the buses made me happy and having no fuss
But today, the bus industry revolves all around us
Us being the hobbyist that we are and involvement that we do
This is something we should continuously pursue
Let’s keep the bus industry alive
I am being honest and that’s no jive
As the bus exhausts reminds us, let us be the influential force of the bus.

the humble sloth sees no morning and no worm in the sun -
nor the chittering of a few eager sparrows,
either -
             he sees everything square in
rhombic - squinty eyed, sorta:
should i bother it, or will i wait long
long enough till it bothers me?
that's me, right there, a young man will
idealise women, until he finally idolises
them in the naked form at-moist
sensual... and this will go on and forth,
he'll pass the corridor of a few
teenage pregnancies, because there
was no *****-Nilly & the Eager-******
scenario for him to scream and moan...
until dawn.
                      the natural contract is there
and it will knit & pick out the most
useless lions... until a few lionesses start
to congregate and do what the lion
does... every lion's statue akin to man's
is not even in a state of contemplation...
strange how man glorifies life and sacrifice
and indeed sacrifices the worth of life
by burning incense, and selling goods,
and running around the world
for a worth of a scalpel's worth of
a barber overdoing it... calling the forehead
a man's chin, and bluntly stroking it
until a dentist can take part in the wreckage...
might i say: i am sometimes like a sponge,
i read a bit of e.e. cummings and act on paper,
i don't plagiarise as such,
i merely focus on how one might repeat -
he said, she said,
       and return to: nonetheless, it said
for both of you: without a neuter pronoun:
she'll say eve, and he'll say eve,
    he'll say apple, and she'll say apple,
and you're still both, both! going to sit on a
******* chair... deemed obscure for
the sistine chapel, but indeed worthy to
scribble the lesser findings of graffiti into
a classroom table, like GD GV M GD CCK...
       so i i dabble a lot, in much of what
really is testing the young men who begin
with misogyny comparisons of genitals
at Billingsgate... and later try to find
one and only monocle to a bowler hat and moustache...
that train? long gone...
     so let us find people like me...
who idolised women, who made them divine in
supposed grace, and... well... eventually
all babies look similar, as do old people...
women chop of their locks (unless
they want to be deemed Merlin's brides)
   and the fat embodies them and they all turn out
alike... we all think heaven is the pinpoint -
    governed by an aesthetic democratisation of
all our faults... i just don't trust a world to be
wandering a forest of oak, while in the background
man settles matters of what dwarf eye of the beholder
should be asserted above the immortals' arrogance...
         but there i was... idealising women...
what a horrid affair...
     the moment you encounter woman
you already know she eats, she farts, she snarls
and she stares... after all: what woman is a woman
who isn't building a cosy abode?
            the moment you begin from a fascination
with women, that you state your anti to a misogyny
well... try wiping your nose with paper
   and even bothering debating feminism with anyone
except a homosexual... you haven't got lunch,
you have this seemingly 1970s film from Polish cinema
that states that feminism is equally transcendent
to encompass Aristotle in the present age,
       as it is not encompassing some frivolous
   ancient Greek joke... why women have less teeth
than men... i guess they hide them... then they
practice felatio... n'es pas?
                    i have a wriggly worm, she has a
hollowed out bone to fill with juices of the marrow...
     then she's practical enough to call Aristotle
an autistic astronaut... i say: give the woman! a time-machine!
         why? she has no sense of humour,
or no historicity concerning humour,
    or how there are necessary fluctuations...
men these days tell rapes jokes...
           because the one joke they are afraid to say, is:
at a ceremonial altar, with the punchline: i do.
               i do is hardly synonymous with the more
appropriate: i will.
                i do is a stagnation coordinate:
how can i do all of that if i say i will do such things
only account of mere ceremony? surely
the chaplain gets paid... but what do i get?
alimony checks, court-hearings and how
        i have two testicles, she has two *******
  and we debate the 2 to 3 ratio of d.i.y. holes
     for inviting sinister sergio to do the plumbing;
cos the ******* cobwebs got in the way by way
of leeching on the purse.
              see where misogyny comes from?
not getting an Aristotelian joke... or basically not
getting an ancient Greek joke right...
because off they go! mistaking dualism as a dichotomy...
   you start idealising women, you encounter
a woman and ****! the dream is gone, and out
pops shaggy and ******-doo...
                   and if you retract from idealising women?
you begin with Billingsgate and genitalia...
me? personally? i always thought of marinating my
chicken thigh in a warmed marinate of yoghurt
and tandoori spice - mix the two: you get Coronation
pink... all fluffy and unicorn and wonderful...
           idealism can be hard to shake off...
unless of course you tell either Americans or Russians
how finicky things can get in the bridal-chambers
of Essex on the Grecian isles of Cos,
   or Ibiza (I-beef-ah), or anywhere where there's
contrary speed-dating shakiness that's bound
to be representative of Essex, once upon a time,
when great music played a key-role in merely
utilising all body parts when dancing, i.e. snogging,
and lo and behold... when satan averted his
eyes composing the two serpent composition,
he looked into the mouth of man and a mouth
of woman, and found no resemblance unto his
original investigation: speak no ill of tongues:
for the tongues of men are merely ill-fated
         against themselves: for they revel in
other parts of their anatomy bearing the sting
and quickened step,
   but whether it's politics or uniting two tongues
in a dance: they're sluggish about it
ever becoming fruitful quickly enough to
            sediment into a snail's shell worth of
chattering teeth into old age, for the slug of both
sexes' tongue, having no such allowance,
         and subsequently left wriggling into their
daily trough of the competitive: first come,
first served.
                   but then man want's clarity!
if i idealised women, have i not become a gimmick
to such idealisation in the first place?
              how can i display this with all but words,
well, i can, all the more simpler...
                 by idealising women i have conceded
to a contest that has brought me against my fellow ***...
              and all because by having idealised woman
as a concept: i cannot see any of man's achievements,
i cannot see any achievements worth striving for
   in what could be translated as creating a reverse
idealisation of woman, in that other men might idealise
me, to later idolise me... all saints were fools in
idealising jesus, which is why he's strung to a crucifix
made of termite-wood... the minute they hang him
upright on mt. golgotha the crucifix collapses...
                        how could he be an ideal if
  the obscurity of righteous judgment be so-far removed
from the people? is this the construct of the pharisees
appealing to the reason of the greeks to save them
from the roman "oppressors"?
         can this really be the case? just because the greeks
had so much more to think about, and so many more
things more interesting than the romans to think about
that they would have rather written the "new" testament
in greek?
    i am indeed graced by an incompetence
   of having begun with idealising women, experienced
a woman, and thus begun idealising myself
    to a status of idol, or a moral example of plagiarism
worthy of imitation...
               does a crucifix imply a metaphor of
marrying a difficult woman? how many poetic
angles has a man have to write to rob these filthy
philistines of taking things too literally
      and provoking Islam?!
                      when it comes to the old testament
poets only exploit the book of genesis...
   but with the new testament... it's almost like
this need to create a poetic attack on the established
order... and when the book of revelation appears
as the exodus-equivalent book...
       we get: a democracy of poetics...
           which accounts for escaping the health
of the body, and an inherent illness of the abstracted
brain: the mind, and then that becomes
     cubed and encompasses nothing quiet
once more able to take literalism mind's experience
of the world: back into it.
             sheltered man of civilisation can take
a painting more seriously, and then explore it in
his dream factory, than the man pledged to the land
with no galleries, and instead given a canvas
that might swarm with tornadoes and give him
absolutely: no luxury to dream.
   dreaming is a luxury... the last remaining luxury
most people have these days...
   i don't think people can be artists by simply
dreaming... i think they're luxury hobbyist,
       call them the ones standing in line
            as Joseph's Travel Agents... 7 years in Tibet
     (lean years).... and 7 years in a district of Beijing -
where have the "blind" prophets disappeared to?
      and why do so many seem blind
      and blindingly obey to the prophets of "sight"?
nonetheless: frivolous questions...
                 i idealised woman to the extent that
upon encountering a woman: i could not find
an ideal to suggest idol worship for other men...
or create a continuum of dialectical embedding
or the sight of following the cause toward becoming
a sacrificial lamb: whether under the bachelor's
ideal of becoming a martyr - or indeed
                      the idea of becoming a martyr:
bound to old age... and woman - for where did
the wooing of man recede to?! farting into an armchair
and arthritis... much aplenty about that much
could be said about me too: solo.

after an oil spill mowed the lawn
for eleven an hour,
tiny migrants crowded the greenhouse gate.
the bug ****** moonwater muddied
the steps of the tenderhearted
community (of seed undertakers),
and made its way by means of caked rubber
into the cytophotocycle,
where the moonwater volatilized.
liquid volery.
vivid luck.
awoken like post-dream nap perspirants -
oneiroceiving precipitate;
the greenhouse grew murals in condensation,
the accidents si quieros.
a misty opacity attrited
like deskinning a spider,
with a definitude of exo scaling tons;
memories shed,
shies misled.

        ⌂ the greenhouse stands where a glacier once
        slipped, clumsy as steadfast could be.
        foreign fruit fits inside it.
        it knows not what it grows.

        🌢 the moonwater was salt-lipped for a while.
        where it passed through, it was soiled.



you’d be surprised how many things hit glass.
the moonwater didn’t realize what volume
seizes space
until it heard its kind on the outside. from the inside.
Venus has a reassuring kiss when a drone is dampened.
there were three rows for puddling;
one for naps,
one for not naps,
and one for knotted gnats laying hot eggs
in lustrated bloom.
flume frustrated.
somewhere far up the chain, a worn-out manager
ordered inventory off-brand,
and enchanted a horticultural hobbyist.
the devil is ennui and god is curiosity.

        ⌂ there could be a greenhouse next door, but
        it would be an accident, a leaky shed
        with errant sprouts.
        as it would seem to my lustrous heart.
        lagging and callous.

       🌢 the moon was uninterrupted that night.
        mighty sky drifters never passed between them.
        like a parent with patience or a friend with faith.
        like a husk that stole your pose.



the maceration was mutual with leaky infusions
of purpose and imagination
materializing into groundskeepers
that tamed the pressure of an ever encroaching periphery.
one time the moonwater nearly fumed its way dry
after a political candidate entered the greenhouse
with scissors promising bonsai.
but pesticides pass by.
and pictures of fabric mean less than bird song
or beetle guides.
for the frame never mattered to the moonwater.
no more than a furnace in winter,
than a flower in summer.

        ⌂ when it comes time for the greenhouse to deracinate,
        to throw her vines like limbs over garden walls
        and access roads, eye to eye with cumulus
        monoliths; her moonwater sweat will slip
        through the glass glue and slide down to
        her fingers . . . to feel what she feels

        🌢 i love pooling here
        🌢 i love steaming and raining here
        🌢 i will love being the halo in your refraction

It was June 6, 2015
This was a bus trip that convened
As I go along, you will see what I mean
It was the Metropolitan New York Bus Association Event
From New York City to Pennsylvania we went
We stopped in Lebanon, PA for a bus pulse stop
Timing couldn’t have been just right as seeing the buses kept our hearts functioning tops
Later, it was journey on to the Museum of Bus Transportation and the Spring Fling
However being a bus enthusiast was a good thing
There were all kinds of bus models for sure
Yet, there was plenty to explore
Viewed the Silver Eagle Continental Trailways, Golden Eagle also of Continental trailways, MC6 Motorhome Supercruiser and much more
Let the exploration go on
After that, we moved to the Annex, which was a drive away
There was a lot with more buses to see
There was the MC8 Peter Pan bus, MC9 Bonanza Bus Lines and who could forget a Capitol Trailways Buick car that travelled from Pottsville, Pinegrove and Harrisburg, Pennsylvania
Before buses hit the road, they started as a car in buses begin
Things started to change from when
Yet stagecoaches were put to an end
The only thing about that, your **** got sore and the pain you just couldn’t ignore
Being a bus nut s we hobbyist are called
We are the bus industry preservationist, and the buses we stand for all
Now I added 2 new buses to my large vast models collection
Buses are more than just over the road, they captured my heart in their behold
This is my own personal vibe being never told
I am being honest and bold
Buses have been my passion since the years of my birth
They will remain with me until my death on this Earth
Bus models have changed over the years
This is why I still preserver
Buses from past have become my memory that shall last
Museum’s capturing buses in still, but being determined has become my will.

Once I feel a little comfort
I'll start blabbering about my dreams in progress
She's so supportive
thinks I'm a renaissance man
for all I find important
all the albums and paintings I've planned
Young da Vinci to a T
Little she know I don't dot my eyes
So I'm just sitting there
looking at a bland pole
with blurry vision
She's too great
so my childish totem's fade
cause all I want is you babe
Streaming binges on the couch
I sense the boredom bubbling up
So I start sifting through that rolodex
of perfect dates in my head
Walking through the naval museum
I still sense things are out of step
'cause a flawless Connery impression
just fell flat
I double down
beat the dead horse
of course, of course
So we sat down on the bench
across from the U.S.S. She don't give a ****
We talk about us
and I'm hit with a brick
"You used to wanna be a rock star
write books, teach college
and travel far
What ever happened to the "Will to Power"
you never used to shut up about
You're just content to be a hobbyist simp
that talks big and likes to hold my hand
I fear I'm holding you back
You've gotten so lazy since we met"
I wipe the brick from my face
and explain that my mind
is the only chains
that stopped me from doing those things
I was never even happy with those lofty dreams
She got me outta a dark place
and I'm content with just
strumming chords on my front porch
and exploring Western New York
So long as it's with someone more gorges than Ithaca
And you'll be my Penelope
She says she doesn't deserve me
but as she stares at Lake Erie
I know she means that I'm not the man she hoped I was
I used to rap about snatching power and holding gold
while beating myself like an opus dei catholic
just for being too lazy and not doing enough
I'm sorry you made me comfortable and happy enough
to live a modest life
(Oh good tidings of comfort and joy
comfort and joy)
Now I'm alone again
and it's opening day
Wreck myself with unachievable goals
just to reel them in
Get secure and balanced 'till
they'll throw me back into the mercury waves
I'm an ancient treasure in the making
don't excavate me.

Putting the Hasbro model together being a snap
You won’t need a thinking cap
It is as easy in reading a destination map
Piece by piece
The instruction being an ace
Product is made in not making a waste
It’s a Hasbro Greyhound Bus
A display that will involve the hobbyist in us
Detail piece upon piece
Bringing it together will be a feast
Fun with anticipation of done
The heart in admiring the Hasbro production bus
The talent in being a preservationist at the hobbyist level
Hasbro being a name for the one who helps create
It has become the moment at the precise date
Fate of production is your Hasbro hands
The after product becoming a display at your own demand.

The driveway's looking more like a rattlesnake
with fangs hanging halfway over home plate.
There's barricade tape draped around the landscape.
'Garden Gnomes like, "It's for your own safety."
Diamond dazed by the street light's preacher gaze
when a great escape turns into "The Great Escape."
More in common with a bucket of maggots  
than scabs in a satchel scared of the fabric.
So I went from hobbyist to a full fledged addict
with the mindset of "let's see what happens.''
Sat back and sprouted some wings like a snapdragon
then proceeded to prep the bandwagon with laughter.

In the most private corner of
the tiny cafeteria, a young
couple shares a meal after school.
In between washing down their burgers
with soda and making out, she speaks.
Babysitting—her newest hobby
(And not just for the money).
On and on she talks about how fulfilling
watching a child is… as if she isn’t one.
He chokes catching her meaning:

“If the ****** breaks, I won’t mind.”

As if having children is just as easy as
pouring invisible tea for a table of dolls.
Premature parenthood—she’s so eager;
he drowns the idea in another mouthful of soda.
Tears end the conversation; though, not
his fault—she checked her watch, tensely.
Mother is an hour late picking up
her daughter from junior high.

Your handwriting is ******* me the ******* and every time your scrawny little fingers manage to get through a mediocre sentence your black ink smudges across the page like a baseball to a bat. What a terrible ******* comparison. How are you ever going to make it as a hobbyist writer. Hobbyist isn't even a word probably. If you had a second to not think about every single ******* thing all at once you'd probably be able to get through a single prose and thought. But you never could, so why start today? James Joyce's stream-of-consciousness was at least poetic, yours is just frantic and scared like a child lost in a grocery store for a whole minute without their mother. Speaking of, when are you going to tell her to stop emailing you job applications like a service agent. You have a voice. A small one. But a voice. And so do I. Did you think the author name drop was enough to seem like you might know something about writing, because you don't. Rest assured who's ever reading this knows that now. When we get home you better start your laundry because if I have to stay up till 3AM again your going to make me disassociate. That's what you want isn't it? Maybe if you're lucky I'll remind you about that time a centipede ran across your pillows by 1am. You think I'm your OCD speaking - I thought you didn't believe in labels. Whatever think what you want, I'm just a passenger. Kinda like that Black Mirror episode with the girl - you know the one - cause, well, your me and you have to know. What's it like to have a conversation with yourself you sick ****. Oh you just became conscious of your own voice reading this in your head. My bad - actually I'm not even mad about it. Your mad.

a hobbyist
who impersonates
god

attempts
to make
from scratch

a parasite.

-

I fail
not her

her nakedness.

-

she is not sad, she is climate.

-

in a sense,

it doesn’t take long
for the lifeless
body
to latch
onto
the idea
death
had
of a baby

slowed
to a crawl.  

-

if you must, harm, harm only

the touch
she projects.

You can hitch
Your wagon to his star
And you’ll go down
Like William Barr
We don’t know
Who you are
Lindsey Graham
Or Billy Mahr

Recite talking points
Like Debin Nunez
Swim down a canal
Let’s say the Suez
You’re in a triangle
Ya heard? Burmudez
So all your efforts
Will be fruitless

Strange that
He still has apologist
Lining up all over
Right in our midst
Denying what must
Be called obvious
Makes me stop to wonder
Are they hobbyist?

You have to ask yourself
Are they blind?
Or have they gone
And lost their minds?
Defending such a
Blatant traitor
Someone who’s
A dyed in the wool hater


         Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2019.  All rights reserved.























































­
































































­
































































­













































You can hitch
Your wagon to his star
And you’ll go down
Like William Barr
We don’t know
Who you are
Lindsey Graham
Or Billy Mahr

Recite talking points
Like Debin Nunez
Swim down a canal
Let’s say the Suez
You’re in a triangle
Ya heard? Burmudez
So all your efforts
Will be fruitless

Strange that
He still has apologist
Lining up all over
Right in our midst
Denying what must
Be called obvious
Makes me stop to wonder
Are they hobbyist?

You have to ask yourself
Are they blind?
Or have they gone
And lost their minds?
Defending such a
Blatant traitor
Someone who’s
A dyed in the wool hater


                                               Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2019.  All rights reserved.

Buses with headlights that flash
Movement in a Duracell battery dash
Toy buses keep going and going
Buses that wink
The creators are the ones who think
Eye on the structure design
Perfection and keep that in mine
Any bus company name
Satisfaction aim
A child at ease
Enjoyment to please
Spinning wheels
Toy buses are for real
Touch and feel
Learning vintage
Toy buses that form a hobby
Collector’s dream
Feeling like a movie stream
Toy bus hobbyist I have become
It’s a hobby next to none
Joy and experience
Captivated through influence
Toy buses roll out
This is what being a toy bus hobbyist is all about
Enter in with a stay in
My motto, “Why pretend”
The enjoyment from beginning to end

The thought of Parades, Fireworks, and everything in between from Macy’s Herald Square. It was the capturing moment of the heart by a Five Year Old boy being the writer. I was a member of the MMG team known as Macy’s Merchandising Group at the Corporate level at Penn 11 Plaza in New York City. It all started when my Aunt Elmira took me to Macy’s Herald Square, and we were walking around the store, and I was startled, and my attention was drawn by a marquee eyes  pulsating moving back and forth with an array of school buses on display. The school buses in yellow and miniature toy students inside, and the roof was partially open. Unknowingly to my Aunt, I had picked up one of the buses, and held it tight in my tot hands for life. Once when my Aunt was ready to leave Macy’s. My Aunt noticed that picked up one of those school buses in my hand from the display. My Aunt told me to put the bus back, and I wouldn’t. Through my mind was shouldn’t. My Aunt even tried to take the bus out of my hand, but couldn’t. I had a strong grip for a little tot. As s tot, I was determined that the bus was going to be mine regardless. I even kicked my Aunt. My Aunt was forced to buy that bus at Macy’s. That ordeal led me to exposure to the bus industry in moving and observing.

This all led me to become a Bus Hobbyist in the preservation within the motor coach bus industry, and working for the hound being Greyhound Bus Lines, Inc. in my teenage years while I was going to college as a Package Express outside Account Executive. Macy’s opened the doors for me being the bus industry, and their headlights. An opportunity through the tunnel of intrigue. It was the open road with clear concise ideas, and the off ramp being my destination. It was the notion with presentation, and the buses in becoming my collecting structure. Who would have thought, Macy’s being my saga in becoming a bus enthusiast, and forming idealist. Thank you Macy’s for starting my first Bus Road Trip, and the chapter in stepping down memory lane and acknowledging the highway.

First let me inform
1947 I was not born
This poem involves a 1947 Silversides bus that was designed in that year
Now let me preserver
As a Bus Hobbyist
The Silversides is history on every list
It was the 1960’s when my Godmother ran a Charter trip to the Dutch Country, which you know them as the Amish in Pennsylvania
It was a Red and Silver design
It looked like a Trailways fleet
But for me the bus was unique
The Silversides was the Motor coach kind
I actually rode being genuine
There was no Restroom aboard
There was Air Conditioning, but it was the season of spring on a mild day so the Air Conditioning wasn’t needed
I was enjoying riding the Silversides being a Vintage of history
I was given the opportunity to ride a bus having a past
The evolution of time that accelerated fast
But my name is on the 1947 Greyhound Silversides housed at the Greyhound Bus Museum in Hibbing, Minnesota
So I will always be reminded of vintage
The opportunity surrounding privilege
Bus Education giving me leverage