the bus poets

we are the modern day chimney sweeps,
the ***** black faced coal miners of the city,
digging up its grit, toasted with its spit,
the gone and forgotten elevator operators,
the anonymous substitutable,
still yet glimpsed occasionally,
grunts of urbanity
provoking a surprised
whaddya know!

once like the bison and the buffalo,
we were thousands,
word workers roaming the cities,
the intercity rural routes and the lithe greyhounds
across the land of the brave,
free in ways the
founders wanted us to be
us, the stubs and stuff,
harder working poor and lower cases

we were the bus poets,
sitting always in the back of the bus,
where the engines growls loudest,
seated in the - the most overheated
in winter time, so much so
we nearly disrobed,
and then come the summer,
we were blasted with a joking
hot reverie from the vents,
but vent, no, we did not!

no - we wrote and wrote of all we heard,
passion overheated by currents within and without,
recording and ordering the
snatches and the soliloquies of the passengers,
into poem swatches;
the goings on passing by,
the overheard histories,
glimpsed in milliseconds, eternity preserved,
inscribed in a cheap blue lined five & dime notebook,
for all eternity what the eyes
sighed and saw

books ever passed
onto the next generation in boxes from the supermarket,
attic labeled, then forgotten beside the outgrown toys
with our names writ indelible with the magic of
black markers

if you stumble upon a breathing scripter,
let them be, just observe,
as they, you,
these movers and bus shakers,
as they, observe you

tell your children,
you knew one in your youth,
then take them to the attic
retrieve your mother's and father's,
teach your children
how to read, how to see,
the ways of their forefathers,
the forsaken,
the bus poets.

The day begins with a friendly voice,
a companion unobtrusive
plays that song that's so elusive
and the magic music makes the morning mood.

A rider hits the open road,
there is magic at his fingers
for the spirit ever lingers,
undemanding contact in his solitude.

Invisible airwaves crackle with life.
Bright antenna bristle with the energy.
Emotional feedback on timeless wavelength.
Bearing a gift beyond price, almost free.

A familiar song plays,
and he starts thinking to himself:

It was a long, long time ago, wasn’t it?
I can still remember how that music used to make me smile.
And I knew if I had my chance
that I could make those people dance,
and maybe they'd be happy for a while.
But February made me shiver
with every paper I'd deliver,
bad news on the doorstep
I couldn't take one more step.
I can't remember if I cried
when I read about their widowed brides,
but something touched me deep inside
The day the music died.

I see the bad moon a-rising.
I see trouble on the way.
I see earthquakes and lightnin'.
I see bad times today.
There's a bad moon on the rise.

So bye-bye, Miss American Pie.
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry.
And them good old boys were drinkin' whiskey and rye
singin', "This'll be the day that I die,
this'll be the day that I die."

They’re modern-day warriors
mean, mean stride.
Today's Tom Sawyers
mean, mean pride.
Though their minds are not for rent.
Don't put them down as arrogant
their reserve, a quiet defense
riding out the day's events.

And what you say about their company
is what you say about society.
Catch the mist, catch the myth
catch the mystery, catch the drift...

“Who are you?”

The tap drips,
the rider finishes his whiskey,
“I've looked under chairs,
I've looked under tables,
I've tried to find the key
To fifty million fables.

They call me The Seeker.

I've been searching low and high.
I won't get to get what I'm after
'til the day I die.”

They look at each other, then back at him,
“Who? Whaddya here for?"

He turns his glass upside down,
slams it on the bar
and says on his way out,
“I like smoke and lightnin'
heavy metal thunder
racing with the wind
and the feeling that I'm under.”
He gets his motor runnin',
heads out on the highway,
looking for adventure
in whatever comes his way.

Yeah, darlin' gonna make it happen.
Take the world in a loving embrace.
Fire all of your guns at once
And explode into space.
Like a true nature's child
we were born,
born to be wild.
We can climb so high,
“I never wanna die.”

Company, always on the run
destiny is a rising sun.
Oh,
he was born, 6 gun in his hand.
Behind a gun,
he'll make his final stand.
That's why they call him
bad company,
and he can't deny.
Bad company
'til the day he dies.

Screams break the silence,
waking from the dead of night.
Vengeance is boiling,
he's returned to **** the light.

Then when he's found who he's looking for
listen in awe and you'll hear him
bark at the moon.

Years spent in torment,
buried in a nameless grave.
Now he has risen,
miracles would have to save
those that the beast is looking for.
Listen in awe and you'll hear him
bark at the moon.

It's all the same, only the names will change.
Every day, it seems we're wastin' away.
Another place where the faces are so cold.
He'd drive all night just to get back home.

He’s a cowboy.
On a steel horse he rides.
He’s wanted dead or alive,
wanted dead or alive.

In the day he sweats it out on the streets
of a runaway American dream,
at night he rides through the mansions of glory
in suicide machines
sprung from cages on Highway 9.
Chrome wheeled, fuel-injected, and steppin' out over the line,
oh, baby this town rips the bones from your back
it's a death trap, it's a suicide rap
he gotta get out while he’s young.

Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'
Into the future.
He wanna fly like an eagle,
to the sea,
fly like an eagle, let his spirit carry him.
he wants to fly like an eagle
'til he’s free,
oh Lord, through the revolution.

But a storm is threatening
The Seeker’s very life today,
“If I don't get some shelter
I'm gonna fade away.
War, children!
It's just a shot away.
War, children!
It's just a shot away.
See the fire is sweepin'
our streets today,
it burns like a red coal carpet
and a mad bull lost its way.”

Out there in the fields
they fight for their meals,
they get their back into their living,
“We don't need to fight
to prove we’re right,
we don't need to be forgiven.”

The seeker feels around for his honesty,
“So, so you think you can tell
heaven from hell?
Blue skies from pain?
Can you tell a green field
from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?
Did they get you to trade
your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
Did you exchange
a walk-on part in the war
for a leading role in a cage?”

“There must be some kinda way outta here.”
Said The Seeker to his radio,
“There's too much confusion
I can't get no relief.

Businessmen, they drink my wine,
plowmen dig my earth,
none will level on the line
nobody of it is worth.”

Invisible airwaves crackle with life.
Bright antenna bristle with the energy.
Emotional feedback on timeless wavelength.
Bearing a gift beyond price, almost free.

“No reason to get excited.”
The radio, it kindly spoke,
“There are many here among us
who feel that life is but a joke.
But, uh, but you and I, we've been through that
and this is not our fate,
so let us stop talkin' falsely now
the hour's getting late.”

But he knows
that we'll be fighting in the streets
with our children at our feet.
And the morals that they worship will be gone.
And the men who spurred us on
sit in judgment of all wrong,
They decide and the shotgun sings the song.

We'll tip our hats to the new constitution,
take a bow for the new revolution,
smile and grin at the change all around,
pick up our pens and poems,
Just like yesterday,
then we'll get on our knees and pray
that we don't get fooled again.

After this thought, he promises himself,
and any who’s listening,
“Well, I won't back down.
No, I won't back down.
You can stand me up at the gates of hell,
but I won't back down.”

Carry on, my wayward son,
there'll be peace when you are done.
Lay your weary head to rest,
don't you cry no more.

Once he rose above the noise and confusion
just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion.
He was soaring ever higher
but he flew too high.

Though his eyes could see, he still was a blind man.
Though his mind could think, he still was a mad man.
He hears the voices when we’re dreaming,
he can hear them say:
“Carry on, my wayward son!”

He hears! riding off he says,
“Don't stop me now,
don't stop me.
'Cause I'm fighting for my country, fighting for my love.
I'm a shooting star leaping through the sky,
Like a tiger defying the laws of gravity.
I'm a peaceful man who must fight
so I'm gonna go, go, go!
There's no stopping me.
I'm burnin' through the sky,
200 degrees,
that's why they call me Mister Fahrenheit.
I'm traveling at the speed of light!”

There's a place up ahead and we’re goin'
just as fast as our feet can fly.
Come away, come away, if you're goin'
leave the sinkin' ship behind.

Come on the risin' wind,
we're goin' up around the bend.

Bring a song and a smile for the banjo.
Better get, while the gettin's good.
Hitch a ride to the end of the highway
where the neon's turn to wood.

Come on the risin' wind,
we're goin' up around the bend.

In a place he only dreamt of,
where his soul is always free.
Silver stages, golden curtains
filled his head, plain as can be.
As a rainbow grew around the sun
all his stars of love who died
came from somewhere beyond the scene you see,
these lovely people played just for him:

“Green grass and high tides forever.
Castles of stone souls and glory.
Lost faces say we adore you
as kings and queens bow and play for you.
Those who don't believe us,
find their souls and set them free.
Those who do believe and love,
this time will be their key.
Time and time again we've thanked you
for peace of mind.
You helped us find ourselves
amongst the music and the rhyme
that enchants you here.”

Then the door was open, and the wind appeared.
The candles blew and then disappeared.
The curtains flew and then he appeared,
Saying, “don't be afraid.
All your times have come
here but now they're gone.
Seasons don't fear the reaper
nor do the wind, the sun, or the rain.”

We're leavin' together,
but still, it's farewell
and maybe we'll come back
to Earth, who can tell?
I guess there is no one to blame.
We're leaving the ground,
will things ever be the same again?
It's the final countdown,
it’s his final breath,
and with it
The Seeker finds his mark,

“We all hear the call of a lifetime ring,
felt the need to get up for it.
You cut out the middleman.
You got no time for the messenger.
Got no regard for the thing that you don't understand.
You got no fear of the underdog.
That's why you will not survive.”

"Can I buy you a drink?"
"No."
"C'mon baby, say yes, whaddya think?"
"I'm not your baby."
"But you could be." I'm gonna ruffie her drink.
"But I'm not. So bye."
He smirked. *That's what you think.

My pens and pencils neatly arranged.
From largest to smallest.
From shortest to tallest.

My markers perfectly aligned.
ROYGBIV.
Red
Orange
Yellow
Green
Blue
Indigo
Violet
Rule­ to live by.
In order of the Rainbow.
Aesthetically pleasing.
Perfect.

My erasers meticulously stacked.
widest to thinnest.

My pencil case empty.
The teacher approaches the board.
I grab a number two pencil from the small end.
(get the weak out of the way)
I am ready to go.
Ready for action.
Prepared for anything and everything.

James comes up to my desk, grabs it with two hands and shakes it.
My masterpiece crashes to the ground.
I was not prepared for that.
He laughs.
I cry.
                                                                                                                        Whaddya have to do that for?

"We had all these crazy ******' dreams together, Me and Her. We ate our weight in marshmallow ***** pancakes underneath the stars and kissed each other with tongues of fire licking roofs of open mouth. Her mouth was like a ******' inferno, like in the sense that it seems so small and insignificant until you actually get there and then it just swallows you whole, gets you hotter than you've ever been in your ******' life and you're there for eternity. It's endless. If you weren't thinking about it before, now you're thinking about it.

You're thinkin' about her, and thank the ******' heavens for that. If I could get every man on the face of this planet to think about her the way I do, at the length that I do, til we all ******' keel over, it just wouldn't do it. She's somebody that gets stuck in your hair when you're not looking and somebody you trip over in the mornings when you just ******' cleaned the place up. She clings to the bottom of your shoes til you can hear her name in any number of footsteps on any number of paths."

_________________­_

Baby, let me sit in the driver's seat.
Let me drift smoothly, subtly into your lane.
Remember how you always said I was too **** skinny?
Guess what, baby?
When the tail lights call to me I can slide right in between them, like a fitted sheet or rungs on a washboard. I darted between the raindrops like you always said I would but I got wet anyways. What do you know about that?

I don't know much about it, myself.

The doctor said I can't drive anymore. I told that *******, "my eyesight's 20/20! I seen every single puzzle piece on those office inkblots for the knives and daggers that they are! The **** I look like?"

I'm exhausted, Baby. I'm leaking black smoke out of my lungs. I don't brush my teeth anymore because the fluoride ***** up my third eye. How do ya feel about that? Meditate on it. Meditate on me. Meditate on the stars, on the heavens, on God, on babies that died inside of us. I always told you, Baby, you're the best idea God ever had. You ******' did it. Tie me up, baby. If I can't drive anymore, drive me out of here. Tie me up to the god-**** tracks and cover my naked body with those whaddya call ems? Tuck me into your blanket statements so big I get them confused with the entire god-**** sky.

Some folks are descendants
Of Hamilton or Grant.
They can proudly boast,
While there are some who can't.
Well, I have the honor--
You will plainly see
That "honor" here is used
Quite sarcastically--

Of being a descendant
Of one with dubious fame.
In case you wonder, John
Billington was his name.
Ten years after his
Arrival in the year
1620, he
Was executed here.

Hey, Johnny!
Whaddya say?
Why’d you have to
Die that way?
You had to push
The envelope
To end up hanging
From a rope.

The Mayflower was
His means of transportation.
Fleeing debt, he hoped
To rise above his station.
His wife and two young sons
Joined him on the trip.
One mischievous son
Almost blew up the ship.

His son was thinking, "Hey,
This is loads of fun!"
While he played around
With his father's gun.
Stupidly, he put
The whole ship in peril
When he fired a shot
Near a gunpowder barrel.

John Billington was
Always in a jam.
About propriety
He didn't give a ****.
I guess he thought he was
A wise and clever chap.
But he should have known
When to shut his trap.

Hey, Johnny!
Whaddya say?
Why’d you have to
Die that way?
You had to push
The envelope
To end up hanging
From a rope.

A quarrel with a neighbor,
John Newcomen, led
John Billington to
Completely lose his head.
Billington shot Newcomen,
Who shortly thereafter died.
Two juries called it
An act of homicide.

There was no escaping
Punishment this time.
Billington was forced
To pay for his crime.
Fortunately, even
Though this story's grim,
I can proudly say
I don't take after him!

Hey, Johnny!
Whaddya say?
Why’d you have to
Die that way?
You had to push
The envelope
To end up hanging
From a rope.
Hanging from a rope!

-by Bob B (6-29-29)

You can't say
What you wanna say
She said

But I just said what I wanted to say
(Or so I said in my head)

Again she said, no
You're saying
What you don't want to say
To say
What you really want to say

Say then
Whaddya say I go ahead and say
What I want to say
Though it's already been said
(Albeit in a way I didn't say)

And I daresay,
It will be said again one day
Perhaps when I learn to say

What I want to say

(This poem can be sung to the tune of the Shangri-La's 1964 pop hit "Leader of the Pack.")
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q8UKf65NOzM

Are they really voting for him?
Well, yes, they are. Just ask them.
Voters, are those MAGA hats that you're wearing?
Hm-hmmm…
Gee, it must be strange voting for him.
Did you think he'd make the country great again?
Uh-huh.
Tell us why you support him.

We watch him on the TV screen.
It seems his simple words ring true--
That's what we think. (Yes, you do.)
That's why we follow (the LEADER OF THE CULT).

He says that he is the chosen one (one, one).
And knows how the country ought to be run.
(Whaddya mean when he says he knows how the country should be run?)
He says he can't do wrong--
That with him we'll be strong.
That's why we follow (the LEADER OF THE CULT).

He says the president's like a king.
Silencing his critics is his thing.
(Whaddya trying to say when you say he's like a king?)
He will defy Congress, he said.
And that's how we will get ahead.
That's why we follow (the LEADER OF THE CULT).

He doesn't care if Russia's involved
In our elections--that's all right.
In his opinion, Russia is absolved.
If he acts out of spite,
As long as he wins, that'll be delight!

Right now! Right now! Right now! Right now!

He says that his intentions are real.
We don't care what things he tries to conceal.
We'll let him get his way;
We're going to do whatever he'll say.
We will always follow (the LEADER OF THE CULT).

-by Bob B (2-2-20)

Such a strange time.

This dystopian, Freudian, Orwellian, Moore-Lloydian piece of history is like nothing that’s ever come before.
Well, nothing that’s ever come all at once before at least.
Sure there’s been revolutions, plagues, meteors, uprisings, and suppression in the past,
But not all at once.

Someone took all the strange sci-fi ****** mystery B movie thrillers and threw them into a faulty blender connected to a not up to code outlet, then set it on high, and laughed as the house burned down, taking the whole neighborhood with it.

Someone is reveling in the cinematic insanity that has overtaken the world while they’re speed dialing the 4 horseman and the locusts to come and finish the job.

Monuments are going down and tear gas stock is going up.
Some lives matter unless you think only your life matters in which case all lives matter….
Up is down, sickness is health, and for better is actually worse…..

It’s impossible to tell right from wrong unless Snopes is ringing the truth gong, but that’s fake news anyway so I might as well just eat my Chinese food and take solace that big brother is watching my back….

The good news is that GRR Martin hasn’t finished this book yet so there’s still hope for a happy ending…

You know.

The one where dragons come in and burn the city down to the earth….

At least afterwards we can all talk about how much better that ending would have been if we were in charge and that those guys are hacks! Fools! Crooks!

Oh well.

Whaddya do Blake........in these strange times.