Konshu's blog: "Driving"

When the Lord was creating Truck Drivers, he was into his sixth day of overtime when an angel appeared and said, "You're doing a lot of fiddling around on this one." And the Lord said, "Have you read the spec on this order?" " A truck driver has to be able to drive 10-12 hours per day, through any type of weather, on any type of road, know the highway traffic laws of 48 states and 10 provinces, he has to be ready and able to unload 40,000 lbs of cargo after driving thru the night, sleep in areas of cities and towns that the police refuse to patrol." " He has to be able to live in his truck 24 hours a day 7 days a week for weeks on end, offer first aid and motorist assistance to his fellow travelers, meet just in time schedules, and still maintain an even and controlled composure when all around him appear to have gone mad." " He has to be in top physical condition at all times, running on black coffee and half-eaten meals; he has to have six pairs of hands." The angel shook her head slowly and said, "Six pairs of hands... no way." It's not the hands that are causing me problems," said the Lord, "it's the three pairs of eyes a driver has to have." "That's on the standard model?" asked the angel. The Lord nodded. " One pair that sees the herd of deer in the thickets 3 miles away" "Another pair here in the side of his head for the blind spots that motorists love to hide in; and another pair of eyes here in front that can look reassuringly at the bleeding victim of a drunk driver that crashed into his ICC bumper at 70MPH and say, " ' You'll be all right ma'am,' when he knows it isn't so." " Lord," said the angel, touching his sleeve, "rest and work on this tomorrow." " I can't," said the Lord, "I already have a model that can drive 650 miles a day, without incident and can raise a family of five without ever seeing them, on 30 cents a mile." The angel circled the model of the truck driver very slowly, "Can it think?" ,she asked. "You bet," said the Lord. "It can tell you the elements of every HAZMAT load invented; recite Federal Motor Carrier Regulations rules and regs in its sleep; deliver, pickup, be a father, offer timely advice to strangers, search for missing children, defend a woman's or children's rights, get 8 hours of good rest on the street and raise a family of Law respecting citizens, without ever going home ... and still it keeps its sense of humor. " "This driver also has phenomenal personal control. He can deal with delivery and pickup areas created from scenes painted in hell, coax a lumper to actually work for his money, comfort an accident victim's family, and then read in the daily paper how truck drivers are nothing more than killers on wheels and have no respect for the rights of others while using the nations highways." Finally, the angel bent over and ran her finger across the cheek of the driver. "There's a leak," she pronounced. "I told you that you were trying to put too much into this model." "That's not a leak," said the lord, "it's a tear." "What's the tear for?" asked the angel. "It's for bottled-up emotions, for fallen comrades, for commitment to that funny piece of cloth called the flag, for justice, for the family without its father." "You're a genius," said the angel. The Lord looked somber. "I didn't put it there,"

Twas the night before Christmas. He drove all alone. In a freightliner condo made of steel and cargo. I had come down highway With foot to the floor, And to see just who, was behind that door. I looked all about, A strange sight I did see. No kids, No wife, Not even a family. No wreath on grill, Just a man with a smile, I read on the truck, we go the extra mile. With lights of color, Wheels spinning round, I thought to myself, He must be city bound. For this truck was different, It was dark and dreary, I found the home of a trucker, Once I could see clearly. The driver sat driving, Silent, Alone, Sitting up on the seat In this one bedroom dome. The face was so gentle, The truck looked a new, Not how I pictured A professional driver, who knew. Was this the hero of whom i'd just read? Who saved a small child, From being dead? I realized the families That I saw that night. Owed their lives to these truckers Who drive by night. Soon round the country, The children would play, And grownups would celebrate A bright Christmas day. They all enjoy gifts Each month of the year, Because of the truckers, Like the one I see here. I couldn't help wonder How many drive alone, On a cold Christmas eve In a land far from home. The very thought Brought a tear to my eye, I got out my tissue And started to cry. The trucker yelled And I heard a rough voice, "Hey, Don't cry, This life is my choice; I drive for the people, I don't ask for much, My life is my God, My country, My truck." The trucker rolled on to finish his job, I couldn't control it, I continued to sob. I kept thinking for hours, So silent and still And thought can he finish Does he have enough will. I didn't want to continue On that cold, dark, night, This guardian of honor So willing to drive. Then the trucker slowed down, With a voice soft and pure, Whispered, "Carry on Mr, It's Christmas Day, All is ok." One look at my watch, And I knew he was right. "Merry Christmas my friend, And to all a Good Night.

They travel cross our land at night From coast to coast they are a site They're large and tall and long and sleek Can travel coast to coast within a week They work for their owners that have a need They have a special job to do They fill the needs of me and you They travel both near and far from home But they spend most of their time alone They must leave their families behind But they are definitely one of a kind We never really learn to appreciate their skills Or realize they're determined to conquer those hills They are like the ghosts of the night But oh they are such a beautiful site Their lights twinkle as they travel the roads Moving to deliver all of their loads They are the giants that travel to your town and mine They are the trucks of the highway, and one of them is mine

I follow this line with ghost of the pass. Of a family tradition, I am the last. It was pass on to my father by those before him. And of this family tree I am the last limb. These men a tall shadow they did cast. For me to carry on their legacey from the past. My destiny they have cut the way. I am to travel the highway, day to day. Their spirits are bound in this cab with me. Heaven nor Hell can set us free. We roam this land like cast outs from above. Our torement now was once our love. We gave up god, family and home, To take this truck and travel alone. We all live by the same story. And now we are forever in this Truckers Purgatory.

The glimmering black ribbon stretches before me, reaching into endless darkness far ahead, begging I follow - follow unspoken promises of returning into new born light. On its' back I run. Fearsome, ancient mountains, pushed outward from her raging host, deep scars slashed in her earthen flesh, never healing, open wounds parting the landscape upon which black ribbons lay. Her silent agony grants me passage. On her back we run. Wood and steel stabbed through bloodless shoulders. Words and pictures speak of destinations, renewal. Towers of glass and stone shield the roving masses. Reaching, seizing, always more. False prophets of light fracture the sky, pushing back a hidden night. My black ribbon a refuge from the void of souls. On its' back I run. Hearts exiled, infinite returns to the end of our begining, witnesses to meaningless, faceless seasons. Tortured whispers, embraced by loves tears, fall. The black ribbon. On its' back we run. The glimmering black ribbon stretches before me, reaching into endless darkness far ahead, begging I follow, follow unspoken promises of returning into new born light. Until I can run no more. On its' back I run.

What is a Trucker? Truckers are found on highways, in truckstops, in service bays, on loading docks, on bush roads at fuel stops and often they are the first at the scene of an accident.Their wives/husbands help them. Little boys follow them. Relatives don’t understand them. Meals must wait for them. Weather can delay them. But nothing can stop them. A trucker is a paradox. He/She is a blue-jeaned executive with his office in the cab. He/She is a scientist who hauls dangerous chemicals and explosives, a purchasing agent in a baseball cap, a personnel director with grease under his/her fingernails, a poor eater with fondness for burgers and fries, a student of geography and a weather watcher. He/She likes sunshine, children, smooth pavement, good traction, clean loads, dinner at home, weekends with his family, an unbuttoned shirt collar and country music. And there is a special place in his/her heart for his rig. He's/She's not fond of city traffic, tourists who are rotten drivers, fuel prices, dispatchers, snarly receivers, kids in high powered cars and least of all drunk drivers. Nobody else gets as much satisfaction out of talking about trucks, truckers, good weather, homemade pie, strong coffee, kids, wives, sweethearts, and the price of fuel. He/She is your friend and customer. He/She is your source of food, clothing, petroleum and natural resources. In fact, nearly everything in your life arrived in his truck.

Driving through Boulder at night leaned against the cab of a pickup leaned back to see the stars streetlights hurt the eyes at predictable intervals, on alternating sides when you're lucky you can just make out orion three staight stars in the western sky constellations never really meant alot to me occasoinal car star gazing always was enough for me taste the nicotine across the gums catch the moon on a long left turn holding the side to keep from sliding imagining every poetic thing that it could be not bothering whether it's clever or cliche' I'm partial to simpler things I'm thinking it's a lampost through the tree's

Long are the days before, I leave for what will seem Like a lifetime Short is the time i have, To spend with the one i love. The road is rough, The soul is wanting. Never wanted unfinished things Unacomplished dreams, But now duty calls, And nothing means more Than the lives that I protect And the heart that i want. Hopeing for understanding, Walking away Never forgotten, Never forgetting, I leave, Hopeing to return, To the one i love.

Long are the days before, I leave for what will seem Like a lifetime Short is the time i have, To spend with the one i love. The road is rough, The soul is wanting. Never wanted unfinished things Unacomplished dreams, But now duty calls, And nothing means more Than the lives that I protect And the heart that i want. Hopeing for understanding, Walking away Never forgotten, Never forgetting, I leave, Hopeing to return, To the one i love.

jesus was a truck driver he made big hauls at night and there's a story a'the rest-stop on i-40 how he got into a bar fight jesus had been drinking shots playing quarters with his friends some dude got mad made fun of jesus' dad it's hard to punch with nails in your hands soon the place was in chaos barkeep got his sawed-off gun "boyus, take it outside or get shot in your hide" and they all left in a manic run out in the parking lot jesus was the center of the fight they fought teeth and nails jesus had kung-fu skills but that didn't save him from the knife old kid johnny johnnyson was an awful trucker to see one-foot beard nasty greased hair and at least 3 dozen fleas old kid johnny johnnyson was too drunk to punch or kick pull out his 'fly knife swung it sky high and brought it down at jesus' neck there was a scream of pain blood splattered his holy head silence took over the crowd they watched jesus go down that dude was biblically dead jesus was a truck driver he made big hauls at night and there's a story a'the rest-stop along i-40 how he got into a bar fight