Boxcar Blues

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John T. Wurzer

5:30

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Well I was stranded in a boxcar, east of Vegas, west of Maine
Trying hard to maintain consciousness before I went insane
It was a house with missing windows, a lookout with no view
In a place where you can search for days and still find nothing new
Getting lonely was a pastime.  Being dizzy was a trade
Confinement in the darkness like a sunflower in shade

It was in the time of cola wars, when snob appeal was free
And the astronauts were spinning, falling swiftly to the sea
The cold war searched for melting pots, the missiles chased their mates
And men and women scanned physicians' records before dates
It was a time of no confusion when important things were plain
And I was stranded in a boxcar when they asked me to explain

Waiting in the desert, pressed for a cause
Searching for a hobo, disguised as Santa Clause
Burning up with misery, and angry at myself
Worried about the altitude, while ignoring all my health
There isn't much to stir up; the mixing bowl is dry
And everybody wonders why I long to touch the sky

Your furniture and accoutrements are silly and obscene
And you never know just who you are until your lawn is green
You always state the obvious, you never chance to dig
Like a news report that's on the scene or a jazzman at a gig
Your feelings are like discussions taking place beneath the flesh
Your heart is like a broken twig, a deteriorating success
I can feel your naked anger in the emptiness I hold
But I'm still too shy to look in the eye of a blood that runs so cold
You can't get high on solitude until you're overwrought
Believing in the things you know but never have been taught
The emptiness is evident; it's an often-showered stain
You can't believe that the blood on your sleeve is a mirror of your brain

Now I do a lot of thinking about my will to live
And I realize that otherwise I'd lose the will to give
I breathe in stagnant places; I talk to dead guitars
I associate with people who haven't driven cars
I get burned up when a person who hasn't found a place
Pollutes the worlds of other men who wish to state their case

I describe it as a virus, quite unknown and still obscure
While the wasted pets of fancy dogs get smart and go on tour
I told them that their piece of mind got lost between my toes
And that people filled with stature should be safe before they doze
I pleaded with the powers that be to help me and abstain
But everyone kept laughing at the boy upon the train

Afraid of all this relevance, I staggered to my feet
And I cursed the man that put this silly boxcar in the street
Then the walls all turned to plate glass; I shuddered at the sight
Of all my childhood heroes taking refuge in the night
And while the peaceful men get broken, I get awesome and complain
Don't swing your bloody wrecking ball at this boxcar in the rain

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