Open boxcars men failed at chance broken families seasons to forget miles separate the pain turned up collars faded jeans empty pockets soft eyes yesterdays meal from garbage cans behind a diner at a river town   bayous and bridges sand and deserts push on engines running hot grease and creosote luck long gone past … More RUNNING AWAY



Thru all the corners past clothes lines pointing east and west   a pocket full of matchbooks badges from towns passed through, never stayed long   traveled in open boxcars with men wearing hats cowboy boots faded jeans standing like kings overlooking the land   passed over 10,000 streets not one name remembered  


The oversight of day. The thinkers living on caffeine. The poets and playwrights.  The The oppressed and faithful.  They all come to the Midnight Diner.   A box car express rumbles by as cars with dents and paint scrubbed by desert winds breach the dirt parking lot, gliding over pot holes and crushed beer cans. … More WELCOME


Fingers tell the guitar man’s story. Puddles are the snowflakes of cold tears. Lost winds brush against willow trees with breezes spinning from the equator. Cold walks. Hard rain. Diners without vacant seats. Neon lights. Trucks pushing a hard dark night. Flannel shirts and too many stop signs. Everybody wants to be found.   Open … More SOUTH SOUTHEAST