I was sitting at a bar when this guy with a thick, unkempt beard and a hiking backpack settled next to me.  He smelt like a campfire and was wearing a green flannel shirt and raggedy jeans that had been restitched multiple times.  The bartender asked him what he wanted.  He turned to me, “What are you drinking?”

“Long Trail,” I replied.

He turned back to the bartender, “Let me get a Long Trail, please.”

“Name’s McKinley,” he said after the bartender turned to get his beer.

“I’m Joe.”

“Cool, cool.  So what are you doing at a bar at 2 in the afternoon?”

“Having a beer,” I said with a smirk.

“Fair enough.”

“How bout you?” I asked.

“Just got into town.  Gonna meet a friend at 5, but I don’t have a phone so I’ll just kill time here until then.”

“Nice.  Where’d you come from?”

“Beats me.  I was camped out with my buddy Palm somewhere outside of Burlington.  Hitched a ride and the guy dropped me off at the gas station up the road and said I could catch a bus into town down the road.”

“Oh, so you’re a regular old vagabond then, huh?”

“Yup,” he said taking a sip from the beer, which had just been placed in front of him.   “Been traveling around the country for 6 months.  I met Palm in Idaho.  He’s an odd mouse.”

“An odd mouse?”

“Yeah,  I figure if some people say strange cat then odd mouse works too.”

“True.  So where is Palm?”

“At the campsite.  He’s kind of reclusive.  Hell, the only reason he’s traveling with me, he says, is because I can play the harmonica, which makes it easier for us to make money since he plays the guitar and can kind of sing.  He thinks he can sing anyway, but it’s gotten us around so far so it’s good enough.”

We talked for about an hour over a few beers, covering everything from politics, football, and music to the worst states to be high in as well as the best way to prevent swamp ass and rashes.  For someone whose been traveling for 6 months, spending much of his time in the woods, he was pretty caught up on current events.  Nevertheless, at some point in the conversation he learned that I was a writer and I learned he was a poet.  He also learned that I write for a website and figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask if I could get some of his stuff published.

I told him to send me some pieces, which he finally did.   He emailed a bunch of his poems along with some of Palm’s work from a library in New Hampshire.  So, in keeping to my word, here are those poems.  And for the sake of self-indulgence, below McKinley’s and Palm’s poems are a couple of mine.  If you enjoy them, pass them along to friends.  If you want to email McKinley, his email is mckinleygaines@yahoo.com but don’t expect a quick reply.  From what he told me, he sometimes gets to check his email frequently and other times he’ll go a few weeks without finding free internet.  That said, enjoy the vagabond poetry by clicking here–>

Earth’s Prayer

McKinley Gaines

Lord, I think I’m going crazy

Oh yes, I’m pretty sure of that

Part of me is so frustrated

And another is a bit out of whack

Just sittin’ here

Just sittin’ here

Spinning round and round

But nothing changes

And maybe I’ll stop spinning

Because it

All stays the same

Oh Lord, I’m going insane

And these people are sharin’ in

My pain

The other day I saw a man

Just sittin’ there

Spinning round and round in his chair

Pulling out all his hair

Praying to you to make him not care

Anymore

Lord, I’ve lost control

And it appears some people have sold their soul

Many centuries ago

Oh so many centuries ago

Led by fear

Cuz they don’t know what they’re doing here

But Lord, I’ve been there

Oh yes, I’ve been there

I’ve tried many times before

To rid myself of all these burdens

I learned my lesson, though.

But sometimes when I’m feeling sad

I’ll occasionally drown a guy or two.

Never what I meant to do.

Oh Lord, I really just don’t know.

It’s been hard to keep stable

When I’m spinning like a top on a table.

And maybe it’s time to stop

After all, nothing changes

Maybe I’ll Climb A Mountain

McKinley Gaines

Maybe I’ll climb a mountain

Just to fall off

Maybe I’ll fly a plane

Knowing I’m gonna crash

Maybe I’ll eat a lot of Ambien

And never wake up

Just because I’m young

And I don’t give a fuck

Think I’ll move back with my parents

Try and save a couple bucks

Get a job at a warehouse

And a paper route too

Better start preparing myself

As I’m running out of time

Gotta start planning for my future

Or I won’t have a dime

Been managing the warehouse

Making enough to get by

Living with my wife

And my baby that cries

Need more money

Getting another job

Got bills to pay

Working day after day

Jim’s going to college

What am I gonna do?

Can’t get another job

Too much work as it is

Maybe I’ll climb a mountain

Just to die

Cause that life insurance money

Will help Jim get by.

Roses In Youth, Thorns In Old Age

McKinley Gaines

I am an old man

Trapped in the body of a young man

What a blessing

What a gift

It is what old men, in old bodies dream of at night

A return to their youth

Yet I’m too tired

Too stupid to capitalize on this divine gift

Motivation leaks

From a barrel of dreams

My dreams

When it’s done

I will be the same

Empty and finished

Wait…

I’m only 25

I’m only 25!

Let me save the pessimism

These thoughts of approaching doom

Visions of the apocalypse

Let me save them

Deep in mind

For when I am my father’s age

This is the time to be unduly idealistic

This is the time to run wide-eyed into the field of roses

This world we live in

A place filled with beauty and thorns.

When the thorns draw enough blood

That is when we ignore the beauty

Deny its existence

Curse the thorns that have pricked us

Thorns

That existed in our youth

When their pricks went unnoticed

I am young

But I will one day wilt

And become fertilizer for this rose patch world.

What a blessing

What a gift

Happy Life

Palm Fensway

Squeeze the juice

From the fruits of your labor

Let it sit

And ferment

Gaining a stronger flavor

Drink it down

And listen to the sounds

Of your own mind

Running mad without time

No you’re not crazy

So dance

Until your feet become lazy

Then find a couch

Or a bed

Or a soft spot on the floor

And sleep

Fiction Is…

Palm Fensway

Imaginary vision of an early passing

Freezing pupils in a fixed position

They widen as the hologram masks reality and sound slowly dissipates

It is all too real but I am sure this is fiction

It is.

Yet it leaves an indigestion-like tingle

Snap out of it

It will ruin you

Snap out of it

It will become true

Snap out of it, move on

Fiction is harmless

It isn’t real

Not yet

And here we go again

Back into the realm of no return

To confront the notion of a man’s adjourn

It is certain that the time will come

When fiction becomes truth

And the harm is done.

Fiction is harmless

For now.

Sign Shop Pete

Joe Dimeck

With a Pony Boy demeanor

An outsider for sure

Cynical prick

Wild vision of human purpose

Wise cracking, tongue smacking

Verbal attacks

Like yeast he likes to get a rise

Dapper Dan hair

Cold hopeless stare

Goddamn he turns my stomach

Cigarettes and Sunday diner visits are his only escape

His only redeeming value

Is his love for the blues

And Hendrix in particular

But Hendrix can’t save him now

No, not a colorful guitar solo

To brighten up his life

He is a lost cause

A sad case

A consumer of dollar peep shows

Always a dollar short

And a climax never to be reached

Like the everyday rub

Of running lines through future signage

He hopes for clock out time

The Problem with Turning Back

Joe Dimeck

His wheels were turning

Full force and dead ahead

On course to a destination

Where he could find rest

And comfort for his head

At a 100 miles per hour

His hands locked on the wheel

A rusty nail abandoned there

Blew a tire and the rest began to squeal

His eyes kept forward and his heart dropped a bit

But luck was with him forcing death to quit

His wheels weren’t turning

As one sat flat

So he unlatched the trunk

And grabbed the jack

With the tire fixed and his clothes now drenched

The man pressed on, into the desert he went

But the tank rang empty

Leaving him stranded

With no gas for miles and a mouth too dry to spit

His wheels weren’t turning

As there was no gas to burn

In the desert at night

No voices except his own

Would be heard

The morning had come

Along with the sun

And it seemed to be the end of his run

Neither food nor water to replenish with

He thought maybe to dig a ditch

But his mind was fading

And he kept contemplating

That maybe just maybe

He would be located

At around 5 came a passerby

It was a cop who offered him up a ride

The man hopped in and off he was

To get gas was a must

He later returned, gas can in hand

Only to realize it was part of a plan

His wheels were turning

Yet again

To a destination

To find peace

And find peace he did

He arrived at midnight

In front of a dimly lit house

The dryness still prevalent in his mouth

Hurrying inside he managed to find

The bag of dope he had left behind

He shot it up as fast as he could

Only to fall to the ground

Looking up as Death removed its hood