Letras
There is a story to tell
The story itself is the name
Hey Jack, what's that pulling in?
The SP 1249
Ah, blessed be, it is the 1249
I walked on the banks of the tin can banana dock
And sat down under the huge shade of a Southern Pacific locomotive
To look at the sunset over the box house hills and cry
Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron pole
Companion, we thought the same thoughts of the soul
Bleak and blue and sad-eyed
Surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of machinery
The oily water on the river mirrored the red sky
Sun sank on top of final Frisco peaks
No fish in that stream, no hermit in those mountains
Just ourselves rheumy-eyed and hungover
Like old bums on the riverbank, tired and wily
"Look at the sunflower," he said
It was a dead gray shadow against the sky
Big as a man sitting dry
Ancient sawdust
I rushed up enchanted
It was my first sunflower
Memories of Blake
My visions
Harlem and hills of the Eastern River
Bridges clanking
Joe's greasy sandwiches
Dead baby carriages
Black treadless tires
Forgotten and unretreaded
The pole of the riverbank
Condoms and pots
Steel knives
Nothing stainless
These date book and the razor sharp artifacts
Passing into the past
And the gray sunflower
Poised against the sunset
Crackly bleak and dusty
With the smut and smog and smoke
Of olden locomotives in its eye
Corolla of bleary spikes
Pushed down and broken like a battered crown
Seeds fallen out of its face
Soon to be toothless mouth of sunny air
Sun rays obliterated on its hairy head
Like a dried wire spider web
Leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem
Gestures from the sawdust root