Freight Trains Clicking Thru My Room

Freight trains clicking thru my room
dinging red lights go down
I can't cross
I can never cross
Those damn freight trains
keep clicking thru my room.

So, I'm walkin' down the line
What line?
What does it damn mean, to be
walkin' down the line?
Got a heavy heavy mind?
Freight trains click.
Lots of baggage.
Lots of junk.
God! I get tired of seeing
all that junk being hauled
from here to there.

The chains are bigger now.
I just don't notice them so much
anymore, after all these years
of carrying them. Is that what it means to get old
and wise? I can carry all these chains
without worrying about them!

Wonderful idea for storing machine code inside DATA statements. `(That way, machine code subroutines can be saved inside the BASIC`program that uses them! I should write a magazine article and get $40 or $50.)

Train in the rain.
(Show me the alley, show me the train,
Show me the hobo who sleeps out in the rain,
and I'll show you, young man,
with so many reasons why
There, but for fortune,
go you or I you or I.
Phil Ochs, who killed
himself young.

Chains in the train.
Train --the folk symbol of freedom.
Really the symbol of getting out of
an intolerable situation.
More chains.
Bronson ("And then came ...")
free on his cycle.
Free to be exposed to all the harrassments
of the universe.

Brains to shake the chains,
``to stop the trains,
``to make the rain work for you.
Chains chains everywhere
and not a link to drink.

Joan Baez sang his songs.
Woody Guthrie "like"d him.
Thousands bought Huck Finn caps and curly wigs.
Dylan bought a Dylan mask.
I scratched my voice and blew out a dozen harmonicas.
Dylan talked to Jesus just as I
was burning a cross on his lawn.
I was talking to Cohen just as
he was firing a ship in my harbor.
Williams saved us all.
Except Kristoffersen, who refuses
to be saved.

Love goes on the feeling
that someone some person
is so much a part of you
she could be your own flesh.
You would not hurt her any more
than you cut your own finger off.
But I do.
I cut my fingers off.
I have cut 30 or 40 fingers off
already. Love?

So what are we doing here,
we Lords of the Starship?
Why are we here at all,
if we only exist to die
and make all others die?
How does the Buzzard Cult fit
into Darwin's idea?
Is the Starship idea doomed?
Is humanity one of those species
in the whole universe that kills itself?
We carry, I know, the seeds
of our own destruction.
Are we a cancer?
an uncontrollable growth
that kills all, even itself?

Are we Masters of War
so thoroughly that we gleefully die
knowing that all dies with us?
Are we burned out?
Are we lonely?
Do we need
someone to tell our stories to?
Are we depressed?
Are we lonely?
Why don't the others talk to us?
Why do they avoid us?
Bad breath? TV? ORVs?

Goddammit! they talked to our ancestors!
Hector, Achilles! What did they say?
Vishnu, Indra, Kukulcan! Tell me!
It must be so good, to hear the gods
talking to you!
What am I saying? All those dudes
must have been shitting their pants
when the gods talked to them!
(But you know what I mean don't you?)

The still small voice, the one
that makes you sob
that makes you cry "I love you, Jesus!"
that makes you moan "Oh, Christ, you fucker!"

- Lone Coyote Calls