(written in an east erie commercial railroad boxcar on the m-wcrv-09 while at a crew change in bakersfield,ca)
I can hear a man coughing his lungs out. He sounds like a sad man; a man who thinks he has no story worth mentioning; a man lost in his own footsteps. I imagine that at one point in time, this man had it all, or he was at least in a position to have it all. He worked all week at some respectable job that people nod in approval at over nostalgic Christmas dinners with family. He didn't mind all the work. He enjoyed the challenges that each day would bring, and the admirable paycheck wasn't bad, either.
After about a year or two of this, he met some girl from a town he had only overheard of. They fell in love after a few days and she took him to Bakersfield, California, to show the man her roots. But he hated the place and complained the whole time and she got offended. A big fight ensued (it was ridiculous, really, but what sad love story isn't ridiculous?) and the man went back to the big city, but he knew right off the bat that he'd made a terrible mistake. After a few maddening months, he was fired and immediately fled to Bakersfield with dim hopes of finding his one true love. But she was gone - she had moved to some obscure town in Arizona with some weird dude she met online. The man was crushed by the loss, and with nowhere to stay, he began to under bridges or under the jagged stars, smoking and drinking until the stars formed blurry lines that stretched across the sky and the bridges looked like big, dark blankets. When he ran out of money, he began to beg in the streets. If he'd spange up enough, he'd go to dive bars and talk shit on the Mexican farm workers and write sad love letters that he never sent. The Mexicans never kicked his ass, though. They drank their cervezas and left him alone because they all knew that Mother Nature had already done enough to him. So they just let him walk off down the streets of Bakersfield, coughing his lungs out for all of us train-riders waiting on a crew change to hear.
I can hear a man coughing his lungs out. He sounds like a sad man; a man who thinks he has no story worth mentioning; a man lost in his own footsteps. I imagine that at one point in time, this man had it all, or he was at least in a position to have it all. He worked all week at some respectable job that people nod in approval at over nostalgic Christmas dinners with family. He didn't mind all the work. He enjoyed the challenges that each day would bring, and the admirable paycheck wasn't bad, either.
After about a year or two of this, he met some girl from a town he had only overheard of. They fell in love after a few days and she took him to Bakersfield, California, to show the man her roots. But he hated the place and complained the whole time and she got offended. A big fight ensued (it was ridiculous, really, but what sad love story isn't ridiculous?) and the man went back to the big city, but he knew right off the bat that he'd made a terrible mistake. After a few maddening months, he was fired and immediately fled to Bakersfield with dim hopes of finding his one true love. But she was gone - she had moved to some obscure town in Arizona with some weird dude she met online. The man was crushed by the loss, and with nowhere to stay, he began to under bridges or under the jagged stars, smoking and drinking until the stars formed blurry lines that stretched across the sky and the bridges looked like big, dark blankets. When he ran out of money, he began to beg in the streets. If he'd spange up enough, he'd go to dive bars and talk shit on the Mexican farm workers and write sad love letters that he never sent. The Mexicans never kicked his ass, though. They drank their cervezas and left him alone because they all knew that Mother Nature had already done enough to him. So they just let him walk off down the streets of Bakersfield, coughing his lungs out for all of us train-riders waiting on a crew change to hear.
