A cellphone photo & some words I wrote.
Twice daily I walk Railroad Street next to mini-Dachshund’s frantic sniffing, his four-legged saunter an odd unison gallop.
On Wednesdays and Sundays the white noise shatters under the lead cab’s bellow;
An anxious engineer’s gratuitous use of what can hardly be called a whistle.
My inconspicuous apartment atop rail car depot, paint plant, and perfume manufacturer that leaves my living space reeking of an ever-present elderly lady like the one on the elevator drenched in knockoff Chanel #5.
We wander past railcars with few faint hobo monikers, an endangered species, in search of Colossus of Roads, that old rail yard poet.
When I spy the gaunt caricature under ten gallon chalk cowboy hat it’s butterflies in stomach.
In February I found “Bay Area Dadaesqueist Again”.
Twelve long months and “Unimportant Zen”.
The latest was “In a Happy World No One Would Need Philosophies”.
They say he influenced Basquiat, I guess Samo, i.e. “Plush Safe he Think” and such.
But mostly it’s modern hieroglyphics; fat cap, wild style, and tags.
There’s “Nise”, “Gaspz” and “Asher”, bubble-lettered in Interstate strip joint neons, but so many scribblings indiscernible albeit they likely end in “z”.
One morning upon dark blue CXS boxcar in spray paint I read “Dear Newa, its been 4 months since I saw you. I miss our white trash adventures. Hope all is well. XOXO.”
I wondered about Newa for a year, until, this world being flat, I found him through graffiti affiliates.
Chance encounters, he’s in Jersey, and I told him of the train car text.
He explained, “I moved and lost my phone and could only get messages in the yard, plus I thought it had only been a week but oxy and heroin distorts your perception of time.”
He’s better now and says it’s nice to be drug-free but he still needs a phone.