Hobo Jungle
Kurt, be sure and let us know how that Rolling Rock tastes now that it's made with that pure mountain spring water of Trenton, N.J. 
Have a good dinner at Chiles. Hope 'ya have at least $60 with 'ya.
Have a good dinner at Chiles. Hope 'ya have at least $60 with 'ya.
If you agree with the Progressives, it's freedom of speech. If you disagree, it's hate speech. There are no alternatives.
[quote="Tramp"]Jon, two on board the beer train, but where is it headed?[/quote]
Make it 3, but do we have to go anywhere at all? We could just de-train and build a fire right here. I'm hopin' some beer will ward off the stomach bug that's goin' around here.
Make it 3, but do we have to go anywhere at all? We could just de-train and build a fire right here. I'm hopin' some beer will ward off the stomach bug that's goin' around here.
If you agree with the Progressives, it's freedom of speech. If you disagree, it's hate speech. There are no alternatives.
Mitch wrote:Kurt, be sure and let us know how that Rolling Rock tastes now that it's made with that pure mountain spring water of Trenton, N.J.
Have a good dinner at Chiles. Hope 'ya have at least $60 with 'ya.
That swill from NJ. tastes the same. Can't find a replacement for it. Guess I'm in a rut.
Kurt
Hemingway NEVER ate a meal without drinking beer or wine with the food. He considered it dangerous. Something to think about carefully while downing a few frosties. Just my read.
It's always good to air things out after a long winter.
March only has less than 7 and half hours to live before it slinks off into a dark corner to fester for another year. I say FONK YOU, you cold cruel curlish curmudgeon of a month.
MARCH
How the certainties of night
To be lost by daylight:
The iron vows, the dire upsets?
Where to stumble within this breadth,
This disparity within the self?
Is it hypocrisy, when each
Violent illumination is violently believed?
The month of March is
31 days of nasty storms for Celts,
With its one lee shore on the 17th,
To attend the few possible repairs
And to take on our water.
Each day the long mound of snow
At the curve of my driveway
Changes. Here I read my joust with March.
It grows and whitens when in strength,
In twilight was once beautiful,
But now, this final day, it's an
Icy, dirty tongue bleeding at the edges.
I know who the tongue is for.
It should be simple,
This joining at the genitals,
But it is not.
The partner twice,
First in the gilded barroom,
Later in the hungover bedroom.
How can I not fear that all my truths
Are based on a lie:
As who would dare compare
The weight of all alcohol
To the weight of all tears?
Do not forsake me now when I am close,
Please, do not forsake me now,
But that is when they do;
As the rich continue to subsidize
Then vanquish errant madmen
With the free blood of their poor.
For them so much is free,
Except the self-respect I won't sell.
My thoughts take that blinding distance
Out past single stars equal our universe,
But upon return
What am I left with?
DRUNK
This last day of March
I drink ale in the sun
Cooled in the last snow.
I line up the bottles:
One for each bitter week.
At dusk I return to the house
And relight my cigar
At the open wood stove,
And that rare sweet smell*
At the open stove door,
The pure warm smell of wood resin
And I am my forefathers; these
Cinders come into flame.
Forgive the memory of this:
The painful clarity of last sunlight
Upon these pines and balsams,
For it makes me believe again
All that has been forgotten.
* If one smokes a good cigar or pipe near an open wood fire a unique aroma
is encountered.
It's always good to air things out after a long winter.
March only has less than 7 and half hours to live before it slinks off into a dark corner to fester for another year. I say FONK YOU, you cold cruel curlish curmudgeon of a month.
MARCH
How the certainties of night
To be lost by daylight:
The iron vows, the dire upsets?
Where to stumble within this breadth,
This disparity within the self?
Is it hypocrisy, when each
Violent illumination is violently believed?
The month of March is
31 days of nasty storms for Celts,
With its one lee shore on the 17th,
To attend the few possible repairs
And to take on our water.
Each day the long mound of snow
At the curve of my driveway
Changes. Here I read my joust with March.
It grows and whitens when in strength,
In twilight was once beautiful,
But now, this final day, it's an
Icy, dirty tongue bleeding at the edges.
I know who the tongue is for.
It should be simple,
This joining at the genitals,
But it is not.
The partner twice,
First in the gilded barroom,
Later in the hungover bedroom.
How can I not fear that all my truths
Are based on a lie:
As who would dare compare
The weight of all alcohol
To the weight of all tears?
Do not forsake me now when I am close,
Please, do not forsake me now,
But that is when they do;
As the rich continue to subsidize
Then vanquish errant madmen
With the free blood of their poor.
For them so much is free,
Except the self-respect I won't sell.
My thoughts take that blinding distance
Out past single stars equal our universe,
But upon return
What am I left with?
DRUNK
This last day of March
I drink ale in the sun
Cooled in the last snow.
I line up the bottles:
One for each bitter week.
At dusk I return to the house
And relight my cigar
At the open wood stove,
And that rare sweet smell*
At the open stove door,
The pure warm smell of wood resin
And I am my forefathers; these
Cinders come into flame.
Forgive the memory of this:
The painful clarity of last sunlight
Upon these pines and balsams,
For it makes me believe again
All that has been forgotten.
* If one smokes a good cigar or pipe near an open wood fire a unique aroma
is encountered.
That a life will be spent gaining inches,
When this distance is read in miles.
When this distance is read in miles.
Well.........since everyone's doin' the end of March thing here's mine. I was at Rough and Tumble today to pickup some stuff...............( do ya hear me Dirt.............git ready Bro) and was gittin' ready to leave and saw this comin' westbound on US Route 30 (Lincoln Highway). Ya don't see this everyday on a major highway................................. 
.......................
This Amishman was out to the local farms steamin tobacco and flower beds for spring. The cart behind the engine has coal in it and is carrying the steam pans. These are laid down on the beds and steams the ground for 20 mins then moved to the next section. This warms the ground and keeps the weeds from growing in the beds till they pick the flowers and tobacco plants for planting. Some beds can be 50-100 ft long.
Here he turns right on the back road that runs past Rough and Tumble.....................
Here he made a pit stop at Rough and Tumble. Look familiar Dirt.................................
That's my end of March 2007................Spring is in the air when ya start to smell the steam and smoke. It puts me back in that era of how it was done back them.
hev
.......................
This Amishman was out to the local farms steamin tobacco and flower beds for spring. The cart behind the engine has coal in it and is carrying the steam pans. These are laid down on the beds and steams the ground for 20 mins then moved to the next section. This warms the ground and keeps the weeds from growing in the beds till they pick the flowers and tobacco plants for planting. Some beds can be 50-100 ft long.
Here he turns right on the back road that runs past Rough and Tumble.....................
Here he made a pit stop at Rough and Tumble. Look familiar Dirt.................................
That's my end of March 2007................Spring is in the air when ya start to smell the steam and smoke. It puts me back in that era of how it was done back them.
hev
If you want to find history, follow the train man..................
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