From the moment I elevated from my nonsensical age
I have become endlessly dedicated to leave this place
Moving? From here? You’re home?!
From modular homes that polka-dot
Gravel driveways, a weedy old cracked sidewalk
With plastic flowers stickin’ out sideways -
The pride of old ladies
Dollar store gardens permeating the village of
Where I reside
Under dark gray skies
With a travelling bone I pray, someday
I can use and see more of our world
I never told anybody how or when
But, oh, surely, I daydream again and again
About the last walk I’d have
Down that weedy sidewalk path,
By phony plastic petals of chrysanthemum
Outside houses of flimsy linoleum
The better part of my childhood measured by
Days and days, in vain masturbation
To the 10 o’clock whistle of
Stuck St. Station
Stuck St. Station, you must understand
Is the one, the only, way out of this hilly-billy land
As I am too dirt poor to own any vehicle or
Other means of transportation, so my dream relies
strictly on sweet locomotion.
Based on a timeline constructed by a railway engineer
I fear every ten o’clock schedule
(My obsession with freedom occasionally
becomes just about sexual)
Stuck St. Station you see
There are 25 steps between you and me
If you were standing on those tracks
And I’m peering through
My bedroom window glass.
Believe me I counted,
I die to know how close freedom rolls at ten
from my bedroom window
Without taking me along for a ride
Through Stuck St.
(Full of locomotion that’s sweet)
A million trains must’ve came and went
Packed with only a few things, like mail being sent
So with the extra space
Hobos do happen into Sticky from time to time
Riding the rails
Seems like, just to tease me from my low class
For often, they’d stop by my house
to sleep on our couch, and eat our meals
just enough exposure to remind myself
that I’m a poser, ‘til I hit the road.
As you almost certainly ascertain by this point in our story
my brain couldn’t quite handle being anymore sorry for myself
When I saw the only way out of my
Small town frying pan,
Without falling into fire
Leave me, again and again and again
Right on time, by high pitch screams of the rail
At the ten o’clock of Stuck St. Station,
I sit in my jail
Looking out the bedroom window where I can see
This contraption of coal and steam, where I could just piggy back to a new horizon
I watch like if I watched hard enough
All my problems would be up and
Away on the black black hot steam that rose
Pouring from its cone shaped nose
A fire from the belly of this animal rises
While I get caught up in the glow and fight
The decision to not just jump on
right then and there
And of course,
I never did!
Because my mom’s eyes would certainly be red
With regret and fear her baby was gone for good
Then she’d be left all
In her lonesome.
And how much sense would that make?
I bet, she wouldn’t take
My baby bro jack;
blow away like the breeze
just cause its at her back
When the working got uneasy
In the half employed
town of Sticky
And let me tell ya
That’s how things went
Until the day my momma quit paying the rent
we could never afford to keep living there
Took my last breath, fresh-homey air
Ready to fill my lungs with coal tar
On any next red boxcar,
Would the consequences haunt me, if I hopped?
On a ten o’clock,
if I never stopped?
I wish I could explain how strange
It was to see, so far back
The village of Sticky,
a surreal experience of
Finally enjoying the view from the opposite side
And then all the sudden!
Wild wicked fear, panicking faster,
My great runaway dream, now dissolving to disaster
So I pulled out some old Polaroid I carried in a levi pocket
Used my eyes in their sockets to discern, realize
How family was the only glue holding
My rambling heart in one good piece
Made me guilty as charged.
Made me feel so, so
Rash for my selfishness
Leaving all my problems behind to stay
Running away that way, and I decided I would
Take a real quick break,
while the opportunity to talk
to the people I loved still remained.
So I said:
I’ve always wanted to go on a vacation,
Maybe Jack, too?
I know we can’t afford the
Now that your job is
On the other hand,
I’ve obtained a free method of transportation
So meet me with your bags outside
Stuck St. Station?”
And she smiles.
Ever since I left those damn dirt driveways
I can only look back, laugh, tilt my head sideways
And regret not living as much as I should;
Cause when you’re not waiting for your whistle
is pretty damn good!