Coal Train Poems
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Hidden Vein
nine tenths of men’s thoughts are of coal, the rest have an erotic motif
I face your fraying image without knowing why
the more you grow forever the more you disappear
mechanical crickets scouring your field
and we’ll meet again in the coal port
amid the sprays the rivulets of water running down
just look out far the patient colliers tip their wings
the waves are laced with brown and gold
our own mistrust of fire has brought us here
the rest are watching sports the super bowl
we on the other hand are drawing greater drafts of smoke
the last virginal act before the rite begins
your amber tongue against my throat
like water flowing off you doff your skin-tight jeans
the parts of you exposed I need to peel back
such ruthless physical wants such rootless claims
and yet I’d march ten miles for one taste of your mouth
your breast an island on which I’ll never sleep
we’re guaranteed to part we need that part of the plan
you’ll keep the night I took you in the pool
something crippled a level beneath the coal
the hidden monster’s breathing blowing vents of mist or steam
fair wind or snow the moaning of that fire’s
more than a soul can bear
Poem for Buck Owens
Buck Owens is dead
they’ve laid him in a tender filled with coal
jeweled like Pharaoh in a rhinestone suit
everyone broke a string the day he died
who else would start a comedy called Hee Haw
mules brayed the Buckaroos played Buck Owens guffawed
the show’s appeal was all in retrospect
even rednecks thought it was extreme
Act Naturally‘s the song connected with his name
Tall Dark Stranger’s the video I remember best
the Stranger stole Buck’s girl at the point of a gun
put her on a horse and Adios
the red white and blue guitar hangs by the door
we’re stripped of one more man who kept his given name
even in Nashville thick with limousines
Buck Owens was a coal train kind of guy
Black Victory
your camera watched these wolves and chased each step of their pursuit
mounted atop your train you pounded across these arctic steppes
at last they killed their prey and ate their fill after so many days
now the pack disperse dividing the bones of the old elk
the elk bellowed with rage the hour he saw his death
snorting with pride he kicked his hooves but whom was it for
at length his eyes glazed he fell to his knees almost with relief
tired of fighting he told the shades he bore no grudge
the fear of the triumph leaves these wolves no room to exult
across this waste there’s so much pain in those who survive
the head wolf looks at you shakes blood from his lips as if saying No
his eyes are braised he’s got a coal wind in his fur
Ocean of Coal
the waves break many times between the sea and the beach
parallel lines of combers homing in to hit the shore
go out there you’ll find white water scours your every breath
you’ll drown in the billows trying to reach land
in my case like most it’s lines of people that did me hurt
uncomplicated folk who saw my ruin as their way out
if I hadn’t been there they’d have done it to someone else
it’s no more personal than the washing of those waves
when I kiss your mouth and hold you it means I’m going to lie
fighting to grow stronger I’ve fed a line to love
shimmering beauty I just take and leave a husk behind
the bitch about reality is what it makes you be
Roundhouse Regrets
Coal Train’s
writing his memoirs
on the back side of a spade
the Georgia Southern to Norfolk
autos backed up for miles
that was a little respect
the coal line on the Chessie
cold sleet like something out of Hell
and he stayed there 20 years
while others slept with the flatcars
he labored over mountains
telling himself it was Work
who would ever read this
the shovel lay in the coal bin
after the fires went out
once in Chicago
they hung a flag on his nose
and made him an armored train
they tried the same trick in Washington
but the flag fell off
best was the Illinois Central
a siding and tender all his own
yet he threw it away
he was like that in his youth
he ran down babies fruit carts and buffalo
everyone got their turn
now he lifts the phone
and puts it down again
he has the disease of money
these days each dip in the Market
chimes like the angel of death
and no place ever quite fit
the ones that lacked rain were scorched with the sun
the ones that lacked lice were hammered with hail
there are always so many
Americas
nine tenths of men’s thoughts are of coal, the rest have an erotic motif
I face your fraying image without knowing why
the more you grow forever the more you disappear
mechanical crickets scouring your field
and we’ll meet again in the coal port
amid the sprays the rivulets of water running down
just look out far the patient colliers tip their wings
the waves are laced with brown and gold
our own mistrust of fire has brought us here
the rest are watching sports the super bowl
we on the other hand are drawing greater drafts of smoke
the last virginal act before the rite begins
your amber tongue against my throat
like water flowing off you doff your skin-tight jeans
the parts of you exposed I need to peel back
such ruthless physical wants such rootless claims
and yet I’d march ten miles for one taste of your mouth
your breast an island on which I’ll never sleep
we’re guaranteed to part we need that part of the plan
you’ll keep the night I took you in the pool
something crippled a level beneath the coal
the hidden monster’s breathing blowing vents of mist or steam
fair wind or snow the moaning of that fire’s
more than a soul can bear
Poem for Buck Owens
Buck Owens is dead
they’ve laid him in a tender filled with coal
jeweled like Pharaoh in a rhinestone suit
everyone broke a string the day he died
who else would start a comedy called Hee Haw
mules brayed the Buckaroos played Buck Owens guffawed
the show’s appeal was all in retrospect
even rednecks thought it was extreme
Act Naturally‘s the song connected with his name
Tall Dark Stranger’s the video I remember best
the Stranger stole Buck’s girl at the point of a gun
put her on a horse and Adios
the red white and blue guitar hangs by the door
we’re stripped of one more man who kept his given name
even in Nashville thick with limousines
Buck Owens was a coal train kind of guy
Black Victory
your camera watched these wolves and chased each step of their pursuit
mounted atop your train you pounded across these arctic steppes
at last they killed their prey and ate their fill after so many days
now the pack disperse dividing the bones of the old elk
the elk bellowed with rage the hour he saw his death
snorting with pride he kicked his hooves but whom was it for
at length his eyes glazed he fell to his knees almost with relief
tired of fighting he told the shades he bore no grudge
the fear of the triumph leaves these wolves no room to exult
across this waste there’s so much pain in those who survive
the head wolf looks at you shakes blood from his lips as if saying No
his eyes are braised he’s got a coal wind in his fur
Ocean of Coal
the waves break many times between the sea and the beach
parallel lines of combers homing in to hit the shore
go out there you’ll find white water scours your every breath
you’ll drown in the billows trying to reach land
in my case like most it’s lines of people that did me hurt
uncomplicated folk who saw my ruin as their way out
if I hadn’t been there they’d have done it to someone else
it’s no more personal than the washing of those waves
when I kiss your mouth and hold you it means I’m going to lie
fighting to grow stronger I’ve fed a line to love
shimmering beauty I just take and leave a husk behind
the bitch about reality is what it makes you be
Roundhouse Regrets
Coal Train’s
writing his memoirs
on the back side of a spade
the Georgia Southern to Norfolk
autos backed up for miles
that was a little respect
the coal line on the Chessie
cold sleet like something out of Hell
and he stayed there 20 years
while others slept with the flatcars
he labored over mountains
telling himself it was Work
who would ever read this
the shovel lay in the coal bin
after the fires went out
once in Chicago
they hung a flag on his nose
and made him an armored train
they tried the same trick in Washington
but the flag fell off
best was the Illinois Central
a siding and tender all his own
yet he threw it away
he was like that in his youth
he ran down babies fruit carts and buffalo
everyone got their turn
now he lifts the phone
and puts it down again
he has the disease of money
these days each dip in the Market
chimes like the angel of death
and no place ever quite fit
the ones that lacked rain were scorched with the sun
the ones that lacked lice were hammered with hail
there are always so many
Americas