The chorus to his tomes...
Dr. Bill Haley, a.k.a. Red Bill, frequently submits with the addendum that this day could be his last. This entry - his May 1956 submission postmarked from the Oklahoma panhandle - coined the term, "blogging".
Been académie since '51, riding boxcars ever since I remember. 'Fore I knew what's what I was jumpin' track behind the granaries at AltaVista where the Iron Betty'd make herself a big arc and we'd go shooting south on the Eight-Forty local to Hargrove along the Puxico River. A pocket full of Rilke. Course my game on the box was snake charmer which, in case you was never listening, is simple as le targete nouve. The gambling pot starts up when Old Abe wakes up and some fellas are throwing they trousers in there and some are giving 'way their virgin mother pray cards; I stick to bettin' my hard sugar candies. Got me a tooth sweet as Helen's milk.
Some fellas get to pacing inside them boxcars, just going away into their own world. Old Abe be sittin with his legs dangling off the car talking to the river and hisself. That's old Abe's party. Abe be singing bout the mines whilst them Plains crows go cawing back the chorus to his tomes. I heard it most times riding with Abe, them circling scavengers phrasing back at him. Fact, when they get to hollering, all the world is just Abe and them birds stewing a river song through sopping wet heads. That, and course, Betty's bass line on skates. Me, I'm just thinking on them snakes. Sometimes I myself go missing, out with them snakes, and I come to watching my own hand toss a rock up - through the clean wet cloth of my vision - and down, blind into my waiting palm.
The game starts and it don't last that long cus you're always close to the Puxico from AltaVista to Hargrove, an its always like there's about a hundred snakes going across the surface of the water real smooth. Just all these languid ass snakes making real slow wakes on their way down river, just like us. I remember they blogging. Them snakes never stop cutting lines out-the-river-current, I like that, and when the ripple comes hitting the bank closest to the train, I feel that thing growing and going on, passing through us in the box and up allover the land.
But the game, it don't usually last long. It don't matter when I go but when I do I face where we're coming from, look over my shoulder and let my eyes get wet. I track one real fast devil out as far ahead I can, and when the box comes even I front the path he's moving on - as we say - and the poor bastard introduces himself to my world-less stone. I let the rock receive the air and the train just goes on and the snake can't see before he can't see no more, and I surely share the night with that. 'Cept, I only usually hear a lot a groans from the fellas because, well, I said about my sweet tooth and I ain't stretching gums. Never failed to knock that devil's limp body right out the water. Course it lands again with a thud and lays there all shapes on the surface for a moment before our box is carried along, dropped out of sight.
Been académie since '51, riding boxcars ever since I remember. 'Fore I knew what's what I was jumpin' track behind the granaries at AltaVista where the Iron Betty'd make herself a big arc and we'd go shooting south on the Eight-Forty local to Hargrove along the Puxico River. A pocket full of Rilke. Course my game on the box was snake charmer which, in case you was never listening, is simple as le targete nouve. The gambling pot starts up when Old Abe wakes up and some fellas are throwing they trousers in there and some are giving 'way their virgin mother pray cards; I stick to bettin' my hard sugar candies. Got me a tooth sweet as Helen's milk.
Some fellas get to pacing inside them boxcars, just going away into their own world. Old Abe be sittin with his legs dangling off the car talking to the river and hisself. That's old Abe's party. Abe be singing bout the mines whilst them Plains crows go cawing back the chorus to his tomes. I heard it most times riding with Abe, them circling scavengers phrasing back at him. Fact, when they get to hollering, all the world is just Abe and them birds stewing a river song through sopping wet heads. That, and course, Betty's bass line on skates. Me, I'm just thinking on them snakes. Sometimes I myself go missing, out with them snakes, and I come to watching my own hand toss a rock up - through the clean wet cloth of my vision - and down, blind into my waiting palm.
The game starts and it don't last that long cus you're always close to the Puxico from AltaVista to Hargrove, an its always like there's about a hundred snakes going across the surface of the water real smooth. Just all these languid ass snakes making real slow wakes on their way down river, just like us. I remember they blogging. Them snakes never stop cutting lines out-the-river-current, I like that, and when the ripple comes hitting the bank closest to the train, I feel that thing growing and going on, passing through us in the box and up allover the land.
But the game, it don't usually last long. It don't matter when I go but when I do I face where we're coming from, look over my shoulder and let my eyes get wet. I track one real fast devil out as far ahead I can, and when the box comes even I front the path he's moving on - as we say - and the poor bastard introduces himself to my world-less stone. I let the rock receive the air and the train just goes on and the snake can't see before he can't see no more, and I surely share the night with that. 'Cept, I only usually hear a lot a groans from the fellas because, well, I said about my sweet tooth and I ain't stretching gums. Never failed to knock that devil's limp body right out the water. Course it lands again with a thud and lays there all shapes on the surface for a moment before our box is carried along, dropped out of sight.
posted by M.N.V.L. Local 1430 at 5:47 AM
<< Home