furtive explorations

TRAIN IN THE DISTANCE

She was beautiful as Southern skies
The night he met her
She was married to someone
He was doggedly determined that he would get her
He was old.  he was young
From time to time he'd tip his heart
But each time she withdrew
Everybody loves the sound of a train in the distance
Everybody thinks its true
Will eventually the boy and the girl get married
Sure enough they have a son
And though they both were occupied
With the child she carried
Disagreements had begun
And in a while they fell apart
It wasn't hard to do
Everybody loves the sound of a train in the distance
Everybody thinks tis true
Two dissapointed believers
Two people playing the game
Negotiations and love songs
Are often mistaken for one and the same
Now the man and the woman
Remain in contact
Lt us say it's for the child
With disagreements about the meaning
Of a marriage contract
Coversations hard and wild
But from time to time
He makes her laugh
She cooks a meal or two
Everybody loves the sound of a train in  the distance
Everybody thinks it's true
What is the point of this story
The thought that life could be better
Is woven indelibly 
Into our hearts
And our brains

      THE BOXER

      I am just a poor boy
      Though my story's seldom told,
      I have squandered my resistance
      For a pocketful of mumbles,
      Such are promises
      All lies and jests
      Still, a man hears what he wants to hear
      And disregards the rest.

      When I left my home
      And my family,
      I was no more than a boy
      In the company of strangers
      In the quiet of the railway station,
      Running scared,
      Laying low,
      Seeking out the poorer quarters
      Where the ragged people go,
      Looking for the places
      Only the would know
      Lie-la-lie

      Asking only a workman's wages
      I came looking for a job
      But I get no offers,
      Just a come-on from the whores
      I do declare,
      There were times when I was so lonesome
      I took some comfort there.
      Lie-la-lie

      Then I'm laying out my winter clothes
      And wishing I was gone
      Going home
      Where the New York City winters
      Aren't bleeding me,
      Leading me,
      Going home.

      In the clearing stands a boxer,
      And a fighter by his trace
      And he carries the reminders
      Of ev'ry glove that laid him down
      And cut him till he cried out
      In his anger and his shame,
      "I am leaving, I am leaving."
      But the fighter still remains
      Lie-la-lie

THE COOL, COOL RIVER

Moves like a fist through traffic
Anger and no one can heal it
Shoves a little bump into the momentum
It's just a little lump
But you feel it
In the creases and the shadows
With a rattling deep emotion
The cool, cool river
Sweeps the wild, white ocean
Yes Boss. The government handshake
Yes Boss. The crusher of language
Yes Boss. Mr. Stillwater,
The face at the edge of the banquet
The cool, the cool river
The cool, the cool river
I believe in the future
I may live in my car
My radio tuned to
The voice of a star
Song dogs barking at the break of dawn
Lightning pushes the edge of a thunderstorm
And these old hopes and fears
Still at my side
Anger and no one can heal it
Slides through the metal detector
Lives like a mole in a motel
A slide in a slide projector
The cool, cool river
Sweeps the wild, white ocean
The rage of love turns inward
To prayers of devotion
And these prayers are
The constant road across the wilderness
These prayers are
These prayers are the memory of God
The memory of God
And I believe in the future
We shall suffer no more
Maybe not in my lifetime
But in yours I feel sure
Song dogs barking at the break of dawn
Lightning pushes the edges of a thunderstorm
And these streets
Quiet as a sleeping army
Send their battered dreams to heaven, to heaven
For the mother's restless son
Who is a witness to, who is a warrior
Who denies his urge to break and run
Who says: Hard times?
I'm used to them
The speeding planet burns
I'm used to that
My life's so common it disappears
And sometimes even music
Cannot substitute for tears

So I went rappelling down a mountain this week. My mom has no sense of adventure about it though, she just kept saying "Mountain of dirty clothes is just an exageration!" I think she's just pissed we used her heels as pitons.

As a result, cubicles -- sometimes referred to sarcastically as "veal fattening pens" for their claustrophobia-inducing size -- are now smaller than enclosures provided for calves.

In fact, according to recommendations from the University of California Cooperative Extension, a calf should be allotted a minimum of 35 square feet, possibly 30, in structures known as "superhutches."

The guidelines did not address how much space a calf needs to program in Perl script while drinking diet soda and eating cheese puffs