05/07/2019
On the railroad with Kai Carlson-Wee
Note: This segment serves as a prologue to the extended conversation on the topic of “The American Road”, which will air next week. In this episode, Kai speaks about how he first became a poet, and he reads a few poems from his recently published book “Rail”. Kai Carlson-Wee grew up on the Minnesota […]
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This is Robert Harrison for entitled "Pinions."
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We have a two-part show in the works
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about the literature, film, music, and photography
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of the American road.
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We'll be posting that new episode next week.
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My guest is Kai Carlson-Wee,
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whom I'll introduce more extensively
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at the start of our next episode.
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But as a prologue to our extended conversation,
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we're offering you today a very interesting segment
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in which Kai speaks about how he first became a poet
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and reads a few poems from his new book, "Rail."
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I know you'll enjoy what follows today,
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as well as our romp through the 50s, 60s, and beyond,
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that we'll air next week.
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Now, can you tell us, Kai, about your own career as a poet
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and something about this collection called "Rail"
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that you published?
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Sure.
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Well, "Rail" is a book of poems
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that I published this last year,
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and it's been out for just about a year at this point.
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And it's about a period in my life after college
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when I was going through a pretty serious depression.
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And I was traveling around the country a lot,
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and I started hitchhiking.
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I started taking road trips with friends.
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I started hiking in the mountains a lot,
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and I started hopping trains.
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And the freight train culture and the experience of that
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really kind of captured my imagination
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in a pretty critical way, I think.
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And there are depictions of train hopping
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in various ways in American culture,
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various things.
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There have been some photograph projects done.
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You see it in some films.
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But there's not a lot.
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There hasn't really been a lot of investigation
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into that aspect.
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And I think when I started doing it,
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it was for me just to escape something in my own life.
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I was heavily medicated, and I was seeing a lot of therapists
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and sort of in that institution trying to heal myself.
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And this kind of travel where you're traveling without plans
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sort of became a way for me to heal my mind a little bit.
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And especially when you're hopping freight trains,
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there's this really intense sense of the American past
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and the American industry.
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And this sort of inability to control one's fate
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that I really, really dug.
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Yeah, of course.
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And yeah, especially if you weren't in control of it
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at the moment.
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Right.
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I mean, you're riding-- when you're riding a freight
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train, you're riding on a 5,000 ton machine
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that has no consciousness.
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It feels like it has a consciousness
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because it's so large and it's so big.
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And it's so powerful that when you're riding a freight train,
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you start kind of talking to it, and you start praying to it
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in certain ways, and you start treating it like a god almost.
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Well, it seems to have a purpose because it's going somewhere.
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It seems like it has a reason to get somewhere.
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Right.
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It does.
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And you have no idea what that destination is or that reason
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is.
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And part of the weird and fun and sort of terrifying thing
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about riding a freight train is,
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they do weird stuff.
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It's not like airplanes where things are scheduled,
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and you can kind of predict when they're
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going to leave or when they're not.
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Trains will stop in a random town in the middle of Montana
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for two days, and you're stuck on that thing.
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And you don't know if you're ever going to leave.
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Sometimes they'll be going one direction,
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and they'll box swap in a yard, and they'll just start
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going the other direction.
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And you're like, OK, now my journey's going backwards.
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Were you on them legally?
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Or were you hiding out?
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Very illegally.
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Illegally.
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Yeah.
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OK.
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It's a very illegal thing.
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However, I will say when you're doing it,
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and you're kind of engaged with the workers in the yards
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and the conductors that drive the trains,
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they have a sense for the history of it, too.
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And although the bulls who are the cops of the railroad
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yards do try to catch you, and they
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will rough house you a little bit in ways that other cops
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won't, because in every railroad yard,
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they're on railroad jurisdiction, and it's under railroad law,
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which is not federal law.
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It's separate.
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And that's one of the reasons you hear
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about these violent things around railroad yards
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throughout the history of them.
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It's because the bullcops aren't subject to the same laws.
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But despite that, they do have a sense for the history
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of train hoppers.
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And there's sort of a tenderness to that dynamic.
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Even though you are doing something illegal,
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it's definitely wrong.
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There's a feeling, a thought, that goes back to the 30s,
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that if there's a hobo on your train,
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it's a good luck thing for the train.
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So a lot of conductors actually don't mind people jumping
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on the trains and riding.
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And you kind of play this cat and mouse game that is
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affectionate in a certain way.
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So how many times were you caught?
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I've been caught maybe like four times.
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Four times.
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OK.
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I mean, I'm pretty good at hiding on these trains at this point,
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but I have been caught a few times.
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The funniest situation was when I was caught in Minneapolis
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a few years ago.
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And the guy handcuffed me and was kind of trying to intimidate me.
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And I said, this is the first time I'm doing this.
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I'm sorry.
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I'll never do it again.
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I'm trying to talk my way out of it.
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And he took my idea and went and typed something
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into his computer and came back.
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And he said, you say, this is the first time I ever doing this.
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And I said, yeah, clearly I got caught.
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I don't know what I'm doing.
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And he said, well, what about six years ago?
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And I was like, six years ago.
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I don't know what I was doing six years ago.
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And he said, well, I know what you're doing.
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You're hopping trains because I'm the one that caught you
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last the last time you were doing this.
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And was that true?
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It was true.
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Yeah.
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I had forgotten that this guy was the same guy.
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But it was pretty embarrassing.
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And I almost was put in jail that time,
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but ended up talking my way out.
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That's great.
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So do you have some poems that you've chosen for us?
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Sure.
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Yeah, this-- I'll read two train poems, because we're
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talking about road trips.
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And we're talking about these kind of journeys.
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I'll read the title poem of the book, which is called "Real."
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And this is about a trip-- or it's set on a trip
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that I took with my brother across the country
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when we were a little bit younger.
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And it's partly about this American landscape that--
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you see in films like "Easy Rider" in ways.
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And you see in films like "Badlands,"
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this sort of detritus of the American West.
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However, on a train, you see a side that's
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just not visible from the highway.
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It's a little even more in decay.
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So it's about that landscape.
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I'm going to go to the railroad rail.
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I find it here in the wild Elthelfa,
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head full of anticycotics and blue rain.
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Twenty years old on a freight train
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riding the soy fields into the night,
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leaning away from the short grass prairie,
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the black Mississippi of dream.
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My brother asleep on the well, well beside me,
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nodding his head to the sway.
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What home are we leaving?
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What distances blur the electric fence?
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What hundred low, thundering wheels of darkness
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are coming to carry us there?
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Rain and the singing wind over the auto racks,
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staring out west at the stars of our gods
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and the lonely dark stars of our hearts.
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Bored it up storefronts, burned down apartments,
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highway signs that only name the dead.
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We cross the station tracks, the broken legs of Sunday chairs
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left rusting in the yards.
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We know the way the story ends.
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Still, the whistle blows.
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The flare stacks whip their excess methane candles
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against the night.
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The wheels that brought us this far still role,
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still churn the polished iron ash.
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The road goes on.
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The highway turns a deeper shade of black.
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And as the sun sinks down on the eastern Montana hills,
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peppered with horses and gunshot cars,
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the rails still lead us somewhere else
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and shine in the falling light.
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That's terrific.
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That's bad lands territory, right?
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That's right.
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Yeah.
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The eastern Montana.
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So how did you become a poet, kind?
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Because that's really accomplished poetry.
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And the rhythms are--
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it has that feel of the chucking alone.
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Exactly.
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Well, I'm glad you picked up on that
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because not a lot of people do.
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The rhythm in a lot of these poems is anapestic meter.
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So it's too unstressed and then stressed.
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And so it sounds like--
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did it, did it, did it, did it, did it.
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And I did that because I wanted
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to replicate the sound of trains and sound of that clic-clacking.
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Sound and also feel when you're on it,
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you probably are moved in that rock-me-baby,
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like a Southbound train.
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It's that feeling.
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Well, I started writing when I was young,
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when I was in elementary school,
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because I started writing love poems to people in class
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that I had crushes on.
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And that's honestly how I started.
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And it was awkward.
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It was sort of a creepy thing to do, I think, in some ways.
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But it was effective sometimes too.
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You kept 'em to yourself, or you--
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Well, I would give 'em to these people.
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I would leave 'em in there.
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If you give it, it's not creepy.
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Right.
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Well, it just--
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It would look creepy back at it.
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It could have come to yourself.
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I would put 'em in their desks or in their lockers.
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And sometimes this did work, and sometimes it was a little weird.
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But that's how I started.
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There's a funny story about--
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I don't have to go into it.
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There's a funny story about what really kind of kicked us off
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from me in poetry, but I know we're short on time.
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Go ahead.
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Well, when I really, really realized that poetry was something
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that I wanted to take seriously was one of these instances
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with a love poem when I was in fourth grade.
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And there was a girl in my class named Jill,
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who I developed as crush on.
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And on the last day of school, I wrote her this eight-line poem,
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"Love Poem."
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And I left it in her locker.
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And I didn't sign it, and I thought, maybe she'll know it was me,
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maybe she won't.
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But anyway, I want her to know that I'm thinking about her
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in this way.
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And I left on the bus, and the last day of school,
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and went home, and didn't hear anything over the summer.
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And I was sort of expecting her to call or something.
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And next year in fifth grade, I didn't hear anything.
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And even though I saw her, and we were still friends,
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sixth grade, didn't hear anything.
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Seventh grade didn't hear anything.
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And just, I assumed either she didn't get it,
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or she didn't like it.
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She thought it was weird.
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But my family moved when I was in ninth grade up to Fargo.
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And so I left that town behind.
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And my dad's a Lutheran pastor.
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And I am required to do stuff.
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Or I was required to do stuff with the church when I was a kid.
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And when I was a sophomore in high school,
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there was this youth group trip that was going down to New Orleans.
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And everyone in my church had to go.
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And I had to go, because I was the pastor's kid.
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But we loaded this big van up and drove down to New Orleans.
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And it was kind of a road trip along Route 61 down south.
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But I was sort of a bad kid.
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And I was skipping the required things in New Orleans.
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And hanging out with some friends.
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And I ran into my old church.
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And some of these kids recognized me and said,
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hey, Kai, how's it going?
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Do you want to come back to our hotel room
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and we're having a little party?
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I said, sure.
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So I go back to the hotel room.
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And this girl, Jill, is there who I haven't seen for many years
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at this point.
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And we kind of reconnect a little bit.
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And she asks me how my life is.
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And I say, well, it's not so good,
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because I'm living in Fargo now.
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And I miss everyone from home.
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And she says, well, do you want to go into the bathroom
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with me and smoke a cigarette?
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And I said, sure, because people smoke cigarettes back
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in this age.
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But we go into the bathroom.
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And she takes out this new port menthol cigarette,
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because that was the cool cigarette of the time,
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a sort of minty, fresh.
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And she starts stuffing a towel beneath the door
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and she turns on the light.
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I mean, the fan in the bathroom so that the smoke
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can get sucked out.
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And I see her shoulders start to sink.
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And I can hear her breathing heavy.
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And she seems distressed.
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And I say, Jill, are you OK?
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Like what's going on when she doesn't say anything?
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And I say, Jill, is everything all right?
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And she turns around to face me and there are tears in her eyes.
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And she says, I have to ask you a question.
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And I say, OK, what is it?
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And she says, did you write a poem for me in fourth grade?
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And I said no.
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And she said, well, it was a weird thing in high school
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to be writing these poems.
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And it wasn't cool to be a poet back then.
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And it's always cool to be a poet.
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Well, I was a little sheepish.
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I didn't know how she was going to react.
|
| 00:15:10.680 |
And she looks at me a little harder.
|
| 00:15:12.440 |
And she says, I know it was you that wrote me that poem
|
| 00:15:15.240 |
in fourth grade.
|
| 00:15:16.960 |
And so I fessed up and I said, yeah, that was me.
|
| 00:15:20.080 |
And she proceeded to recite this back to me.
|
| 00:15:23.560 |
Word for word, line for line.
|
| 00:15:26.680 |
Just off the top of her head.
|
| 00:15:28.320 |
And I was totally blown away.
|
| 00:15:32.120 |
Because I hadn't heard that many people memorized poems.
|
| 00:15:35.920 |
We did it in class, but it wasn't really a thing.
|
| 00:15:39.360 |
And I burst into tears.
|
| 00:15:41.320 |
And she started crying.
|
| 00:15:42.960 |
And we sat down in this bathroom and smoked
|
| 00:15:46.840 |
this cigarette together.
|
| 00:15:48.440 |
And we didn't really talk that much about it.
|
| 00:15:51.600 |
We kind of hugged and kissed a little.
|
| 00:15:53.240 |
But it wasn't much more than that.
|
| 00:15:55.560 |
And we smoked this cigarette.
|
| 00:15:56.760 |
And I just had a kind of--
|
| 00:15:59.760 |
it was a turning point in me as far
|
| 00:16:02.440 |
as the way that I related to poetry.
|
| 00:16:04.560 |
So I realized how powerful it could be and how intimate it
|
| 00:16:07.280 |
could be.
|
| 00:16:08.200 |
And the relationship that it could have privately
|
| 00:16:10.920 |
within people.
|
| 00:16:12.720 |
And I also realized that writing these poems
|
| 00:16:17.240 |
that I had done in the past to kind of get dates, I guess,
|
| 00:16:21.240 |
wasn't really about me and achieving something.
|
| 00:16:26.160 |
It was about what other people needed to hear.
|
| 00:16:29.400 |
And what they carried with them in a private way,
|
| 00:16:36.320 |
away from these poems.
|
| 00:16:37.840 |
And so I started taking it a lot more seriously
|
| 00:16:41.040 |
after that happened.
|
| 00:16:42.440 |
A kind of poetry that's aware of what it does for others.
|
| 00:16:46.280 |
More than--
|
| 00:16:47.280 |
Exactly.
|
| 00:16:47.480 |
This kind of solopistic self-referential poetry.
|
| 00:16:50.120 |
Exactly.
|
| 00:16:50.680 |
And even if the poetry is about the self,
|
| 00:16:53.640 |
is about the inner weather of the self,
|
| 00:16:56.720 |
and a lot of poetry is, it still is--
|
| 00:17:01.160 |
it's purpose is to find a place inside somebody else's
|
| 00:17:05.520 |
imagination or somebody else's soul.
|
| 00:17:08.600 |
And I think that's one of the things that drove me
|
| 00:17:14.240 |
later on to want to really become a poet.
|
| 00:17:17.040 |
And because to become a poet is a long process,
|
| 00:17:20.920 |
it's really annoying.
|
| 00:17:22.040 |
And it takes forever.
|
| 00:17:23.640 |
It's not like you get inspired and you practice writing
|
| 00:17:28.040 |
for a year and then you start publishing poems.
|
| 00:17:29.960 |
It just is a very difficult sort of contentious world
|
| 00:17:36.680 |
and it's full of drama and everything like every other art
|
| 00:17:40.560 |
world is.
|
| 00:17:42.000 |
But I don't know if that created some kind of idea of a call
|
| 00:17:45.760 |
in me, but I do think about that moment
|
| 00:17:49.240 |
when I think about what I'm doing with my life,
|
| 00:17:51.440 |
like scribbling notes in a cafe,
|
| 00:17:53.720 |
trying to write these poems.
|
| 00:17:55.920 |
Do you still have that poem?
|
| 00:17:58.520 |
I remember what it was about.
|
| 00:18:01.320 |
I mean, it was about the girl's show,
|
| 00:18:03.560 |
but I didn't remember what it was until she recited it
|
| 00:18:10.520 |
back to me.
|
| 00:18:11.160 |
And then I remembered the lines that I had written many years
|
| 00:18:14.120 |
ago.
|
| 00:18:14.960 |
It was very objectifying.
|
| 00:18:16.680 |
It was like--
|
| 00:18:20.600 |
I was midwestern, so I was comparing her to farm stuff.
|
| 00:18:24.640 |
So I was like, your hair is golden-weeed and that type of thing.
|
| 00:18:32.600 |
So you can't read it for us, obviously.
|
| 00:18:34.880 |
Right.
|
| 00:18:35.720 |
Well, it was probably terrible, to be honest.
|
| 00:18:39.280 |
Did you study poetry formally?
|
| 00:18:42.360 |
Yeah, I got my MFA at University of Wisconsin Madison.
|
| 00:18:47.480 |
And I studied it in my undergrad.
|
| 00:18:51.360 |
I just took classes and I went to--
|
| 00:18:53.520 |
The most important influences for you
|
| 00:18:55.200 |
with the poets that I studied with.
|
| 00:18:57.280 |
Well, that you-- that you most influenced by.
|
| 00:19:00.640 |
Well, I'm in some sort of lineage, I think,
|
| 00:19:04.600 |
that goes back to the sort of automatic,
|
| 00:19:08.520 |
inspired occult writing that Yeats did.
|
| 00:19:11.400 |
And then some of the Whitmanian sort of exuberance
|
| 00:19:16.880 |
and very Americanness of Whitman, that then extends up
|
| 00:19:22.320 |
through Theodore Ruttke, that goes to Robert Bligh and James
|
| 00:19:26.600 |
Ruttke, and the deep images and Larry Levis in the '80s.
|
| 00:19:33.000 |
And it's sort of a confessionalist style
|
| 00:19:37.400 |
that also is really propelled by the sublime and ideas
|
| 00:19:44.200 |
of inspiration and musical cadence that carries the lines.
|
| 00:19:50.640 |
Well, can we hear another one?
|
| 00:19:51.920 |
Sure.
|
| 00:19:53.000 |
I can read either a love poem or another train poem.
|
| 00:19:56.440 |
Well, I just read both.
|
| 00:19:57.720 |
OK.
|
| 00:19:58.240 |
Start with the love poem in the moment.
|
| 00:19:59.160 |
All right.
|
| 00:19:59.560 |
And with the train poem.
|
| 00:20:01.040 |
This is a much more adult love poem
|
| 00:20:03.000 |
than the one that I wrote for Jill.
|
| 00:20:07.080 |
But this is about love after a relationship is over.
|
| 00:20:10.120 |
And the love is gone, but it's also still lingering there
|
| 00:20:16.120 |
somewhere.
|
| 00:20:17.520 |
It's called Secret Air.
|
| 00:20:20.840 |
I know no God, no ghost, no code that
|
| 00:20:24.920 |
turns the burning engine back.
|
| 00:20:28.200 |
I know a highway field stars above the sleeping corn.
|
| 00:20:33.520 |
The river rolls the world spins alone.
|
| 00:20:38.160 |
We are not promised love like this.
|
| 00:20:42.280 |
We don't decide what brighter angel comes,
|
| 00:20:45.280 |
what water climbs the banks.
|
| 00:20:48.320 |
It could have been a different year, a better pill,
|
| 00:20:51.560 |
a weird forgotten dream, a song I heard behind the neighbor's
|
| 00:20:56.200 |
door, the barking dog again.
|
| 00:20:59.960 |
But it was you, the only one to make it last,
|
| 00:21:04.960 |
to hold my head like this, to lead me back inside myself,
|
| 00:21:10.840 |
to know, to be the sadness of a summer horse unbridled
|
| 00:21:16.840 |
on a hill, departing air, the farmhouse crumbling
|
| 00:21:21.040 |
in the wind.
|
| 00:21:23.200 |
I could have lived 100 lives and never known a real kiss.
|
| 00:21:28.480 |
I could have gone without your winter stars,
|
| 00:21:31.320 |
your street light tinted breath.
|
| 00:21:35.000 |
But it was you, the one who made the darkness real,
|
| 00:21:40.240 |
the highway blue, the roses hollow thorn.
|
| 00:21:46.360 |
I know we die alone in separate rooms with cancelled eyes
|
| 00:21:51.040 |
and some disease inside our hearts.
|
| 00:21:55.040 |
But still, we knew a love like this.
|
| 00:21:59.000 |
We knew.
|
| 00:22:01.320 |
And all the nights I sleep in someone else's arms,
|
| 00:22:05.160 |
the rhythmic dark, the drifty San Francisco
|
| 00:22:08.440 |
nights I wander with the crowd, from here
|
| 00:22:12.040 |
to there to somewhere else.
|
| 00:22:14.800 |
The Safeway lines and subway lines and traffic streaming west.
|
| 00:22:20.320 |
I return again.
|
| 00:22:22.880 |
I remember you and only you like this, your careless grip,
|
| 00:22:30.440 |
your pale eyes beside me in the corn,
|
| 00:22:34.040 |
the sheet of plywood for a bed.
|
| 00:22:37.480 |
It is what is.
|
| 00:22:40.280 |
Among the crickets song, the muddy river rising up the banks.
|
| 00:22:46.440 |
I meet you there.
|
| 00:22:48.480 |
I turn to hold you in the secret air that only you will know.
|
| 00:22:55.960 |
That's great.
|
| 00:22:57.440 |
That also has a very distinctive rhythm,
|
| 00:23:00.000 |
not the same anapestic heavy anapec--
|
| 00:23:03.560 |
yeah, I'm really impressed with your poetry kind.
|
| 00:23:06.440 |
I have to say the rhythm, the cadences, the images,
|
| 00:23:11.280 |
and it doesn't ever flirt with either a mockish sentimentality
|
| 00:23:17.480 |
or a kind of poetic grandstandings.
|
| 00:23:21.920 |
That's great.
|
| 00:23:22.360 |
Thank you, Robert.
|
| 00:23:23.440 |
Yeah, it means a lot.
|
| 00:23:25.720 |
How about one last train poem for us?
|
| 00:23:28.400 |
Sure.
|
| 00:23:29.080 |
This is a poem that I wrote.
|
| 00:23:31.520 |
After I had done a lot of train hopping
|
| 00:23:33.840 |
and people would sometimes ask me why I was doing it
|
| 00:23:37.240 |
or what it was about.
|
| 00:23:39.320 |
And this is an attempt to kind of explain in a poem
|
| 00:23:44.680 |
why it has been significant to me.
|
| 00:23:47.520 |
It's called Where the Feeling Deserts Us.
|
| 00:23:49.520 |
I wake somewhere on the outskirts of Portland.
|
| 00:23:56.040 |
The crickets are singing.
|
| 00:23:57.760 |
The train is refusing to breathe.
|
| 00:24:01.160 |
Often the distance a truck gears down on a service road
|
| 00:24:04.760 |
bordered in trees.
|
| 00:24:07.280 |
The river beside me, babbling kind.
|
| 00:24:10.760 |
Headache, earache, all I can see of the field
|
| 00:24:14.560 |
dissolves in a stale white blanket of moon.
|
| 00:24:18.440 |
Nothing moves.
|
| 00:24:20.200 |
Even the cold machinery seems to be riding itself
|
| 00:24:23.600 |
in a dream, sliding away from the steel retainer walls,
|
| 00:24:28.520 |
box cars stalled on the next four strings.
|
| 00:24:32.520 |
The train is my shepherd.
|
| 00:24:34.760 |
I finger a dead leaf.
|
| 00:24:37.160 |
Starlight stance in the field beyond my cage.
|
| 00:24:41.840 |
We are never returning to the field itself, only the mystery
|
| 00:24:46.280 |
hidden inside.
|
| 00:24:48.600 |
Night after night in the speed of your leaving,
|
| 00:24:52.080 |
soft of your vamed hands tracing my thigh.
|
| 00:24:56.360 |
The flavor of dust or the feeling diserts us
|
| 00:25:00.040 |
may be the blonde heads of needlegrass, swaying,
|
| 00:25:03.760 |
bodies of cows in the next field over.
|
| 00:25:08.000 |
I pull up the blanket to cover my bare arms.
|
| 00:25:11.640 |
Cool air filled with the pressures of falling do.
|
| 00:25:16.680 |
This is the best I can give for a reason.
|
| 00:25:20.560 |
The metal accepts you, whoever you are.
|
| 00:25:24.440 |
The train you are riding will only go forward.
|
| 00:25:28.560 |
The straight line is perfectly clear.
|
| 00:25:31.320 |
We've been listening to Kai Carlson.
|
| 00:25:36.680 |
We read his poetry from his book, "A Rail,"
|
| 00:25:39.960 |
and he's joined me for this extended conversation
|
| 00:25:43.480 |
on the American road.
|
| 00:25:45.200 |
And it sounds to me like the American road
|
| 00:25:47.440 |
has a lot of road ahead of it with that kind of poetry
|
| 00:25:51.320 |
if we're continuing that tradition.
|
| 00:25:52.800 |
So thanks a lot for coming on to Entitled Opinion's Kai.
|
| 00:25:56.960 |
And all of you listeners of Entitled Opinion's,
|
| 00:26:00.920 |
stay tuned.
|
| 00:26:02.240 |
Bye-bye.
|
| 00:26:03.080 |
[MUSIC PLAYING]
|
| 00:26:06.120 |
♪ This is the motor running ♪
|
| 00:26:20.040 |
♪ Head out on the highway ♪
|
| 00:26:23.440 |
♪ Looking forward, damn sure ♪
|
| 00:26:26.200 |
♪ In whatever comes our way ♪
|
| 00:26:30.280 |
♪ Yeah, I'm not in trouble ♪
|
| 00:26:31.680 |
♪ Maybe it happened ♪
|
| 00:26:33.640 |
♪ So well in a loving place ♪
|
| 00:26:36.640 |
♪ My all of the guns ♪
|
| 00:26:38.480 |
♪ Come on, son ♪
|
| 00:26:40.080 |
♪ It's loaded to space ♪
|
| 00:26:42.880 |
♪ I like talking like ♪
|
| 00:26:46.280 |
♪ Every bit of fun ♪
|
| 00:26:49.480 |
♪ The rest of the wheel ♪
|
| 00:26:52.480 |
♪ And I'm feeling that I'm ♪
|
| 00:26:56.400 |
♪ Yeah, I got it for me ♪
|
| 00:26:58.160 |
♪ But I'm running ♪
|
| 00:26:59.800 |
♪ People world in a loving place ♪
|
| 00:27:03.200 |
♪ My all of the guns ♪
|
| 00:27:04.800 |
♪ Come on, son ♪
|
| 00:27:06.400 |
♪ It's loaded to space ♪
|
| 00:27:08.800 |
♪ And I'm the true of the nature's child ♪
|
| 00:27:12.200 |
♪ But we were born for the divine ♪
|
| 00:27:15.440 |
♪ But we can climb so high ♪
|
| 00:27:17.840 |
♪ I never want to die ♪
|
| 00:27:22.640 |
♪ Born to be wild ♪
|
| 00:27:26.280 |
[MUSIC PLAYING]
|
| 00:27:29.680 |
♪ Born to be wild ♪
|
| 00:27:34.680 |
[MUSIC PLAYING]
|
| 00:27:39.680 |
(rock music)
|
| 00:27:42.180 |
(rock music)
|
| 00:27:44.600 |
(rock music)
|
| 00:27:49.600 |
♪ ♪
|
| 00:28:06.320 |
♪ ♪
|
| 00:28:15.200 |
Head out on the highway
|
| 00:28:18.060 |
♪ But look at forward venture
|
| 00:28:21.060 |
♪ And whatever comes away
|
| 00:28:24.060 |
♪ Yeah, I got a gold make and have fun
|
| 00:28:28.060 |
♪ Check the world and the young and the brave
|
| 00:28:32.060 |
♪ Fire all of your guns and guns and it's loaded with space
|
| 00:28:38.060 |
♪ Said I took two on the nature's shine
|
| 00:28:41.060 |
♪ We were both brought to be right
|
| 00:28:44.060 |
♪ We can climb so high
|
| 00:28:46.060 |
♪ I never want to die
|
| 00:28:50.060 |
♪ But won't you be wild
|
| 00:28:56.060 |
♪ Won't you be wild
|
| 00:29:02.060 |
♪ ♪
|
| 00:29:13.060 |
♪ ♪
|
| 00:29:18.060 |
♪ ♪
|
| 00:29:23.060 |
♪ ♪
|