My Final Wishes

I wouldn’t want to die alone,
nor with people standing around.
I don’t want to expire at home,
nor anywhere out on the town.

A vicious death? That’s off the list!
Serenely in my dreams? No way!
Lingering ill or driving pissed?
No thank you, I think not today.

I’ve no wish to croak in Belgium,
nor snuff it in Honolulu,
dirt nap in some sad asylum,
nor end stuck with pins by voodoo.

I don’t want to live forever,
nor pass on before my time.
Take me now. No, take me never.
To see the end would be a crime.
I’m still a person in my prime.

So, please note my final wishes,
in metered rhyme so you will know.
Comes the reaper so pernicious?
Tell the man: “I don’t want to go!”

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A Gesture in Remembrance of Galileo

Galileo explored a heliocentric universe
and knew it was more than just a theory
but the Catholic Church was quite terse
and proclaimed the whole concept bleary

Politicians equivocate global warming science
but truth exists in an obscure icon most bizarre
The Museo di Storia della Scienza in Florence
preserves Galileo’s erect middle finger in a jar

The universe will ever spin for them blurred
who just dismiss all ideas that contradict status quo
A dead dismembered mathematician remembered
cannot convince them of truths all must know

Time and good science will someday prevail
Galileo’s hard fought lessons still linger
But when observation, logic and argument fail
the only thing left might be to show the finger

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Christmas Mission Statement:

Santa Claus utilizes a performance based philanthropic policy with valid and reliable assessment tools targeting specific behaviors.

Dynamic motivational rewards are deployed to facilitate empowerment of critical child based metacognitive paradigms, while cultivating leverage focused towards reducing counter-productive, wayward activities to a minimal level.

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Anniversary Song

Darlin’ I swear to you,
this is only the beginning.
I love you more each day anew.
Count the years as I’m still yearning.
Believe my heart is always true.
Darlin’ I swear to you,
I’ve only started to love you.

I have given fair warning
that you can count upon
waking up every morning
to find that I’m not gone.
I’m your bona fide companion.
Right here is where I stand.
Let us celebrate our union
as lovers hand in hand.

Darlin’ I swear to you,
this is only the beginning.
I love you more each day anew.
Count the years as I’m still yearning.
Believe my heart is always true.
Darlin’ I swear to you,
I’ve only started to love you.

It ain’t natural they say
for love to last the years.
All lovers are doomed to stray,
lose interest and end in tears.
I don’t care if the way we
live don’t match their lie.
Without you baby
I’d be a cloud without a sky,
a tree without a ground,
a sea without a shore,
an ear without a sound,
a foot without a floor,
a lost that’s never found.

Darlin’ I swear to you,
this is only the beginning.
I love you more each day anew.
Count the years as I’m still yearning.
Believe my heart is always true.
Darlin’ I swear to you,
I’ve only started to love you.

When I’m standing by your side
a starry sky appears.
My love cannot be denied,
through all the passing years.
Our time is only beginning.
I’m right where I belong.
Let us join our voices singing
our anniversary song.

Darlin’ I swear to you,
this is only the beginning.
I love you more each day anew.
Count the years as I’m still yearning.
Believe my heart is always true.
Darlin’ I swear to you,
I’ve only started to love you.

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Ballad of the Safety Tips Blues

Open my e-mail,
what do I read?
Safety Tips!
Safety Tips!
TV, radio,
what’s the feed?
Safety Tips!
Safety Tips!
One of these days
I’m gonna flip.
Day and night
it’s a constant drip
of Safety Tips!
Safety Tips!

Really, I’m serious!

“Don’t be a don’t bee,”
Romper Room creed.
Safety Tips!
Safety Tips!
More supervision?
Just what I need!
Safety Tips!
Safety Tips!
Be real soon
I’m gonna flip.
Day and night
it’s a constant drip
of Safety Tips!
Safety Tips!

Stop! It’s not funny!

On the bathroom wall,
they post them there.
Safety Tips!
Safety Tips!
Cute little drawings
everywhere.
Safety Tips!
Safety Tips!
Sooner or later
I’m gonna flip.
Day and night
it’s a constant drip
of Safety Tips!
Safety Tips!

Take a number, ok?

Death, dismemberment,
financial ruin!
Safety Tips!
Safety Tips!
Better watch out for
what you’re doin’.
Safety Tips!
Safety Tips!
Count to ten
I’m gonna flip.
Day and night
it’s a constant drip
of Safety Tips!
Safety Tips!

How does the “block sender” deal work again?

Do me a favor
don’t pass ‘em on.
Safety Tips!
Safety Tips!
I’m too damn old for
this marathon.
Safety Tips!
Safety Tips!
That’s it! That’s it!
I’m startin’ to flip.
Day and night
it’s a constant drip
of Safety Tips!
Safety Tips!

Please don’t forward this to everyone you know. Just consider it an unchained letter.

Tell them I died
in happy ignorance of:
Safety Tips!
Safety Tips!
Day and night
it’s a constant drip
of Safety Tips!
Safety Tips!
Safety Tips!
Safety Tips!

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INVITATION TO THE BLUES

I dreamed last night I was flyin’.
Or, maybe I was fallin’, don’t exactly recall.
Maybe it was just a little something that I ate.
Or maybe, it was the writing on the wall.

My woman sent the sheriff after me.
My woman, she sent the sheriff after me.
That man handed me my walkin’ papers.
He said: “Son, you cannot refuse.
This is your signed, sealed and delivered
invitation to the blues.”

Out there on that far distant horizon
I saw some things I thought were gone.
Now I’m stuck back here on the platform,
just trying to write me a goodbye song.

I remember well the night my father died.
I stayed up all night long and watched him die.
Medical science had all the answers,
but nothin’ they could use
to stop a signed sealed and delivered
invitation to the blues.

So take me back home
where my heart is free to roam.
Where my fear and my anger fly away.
Where never is heard a discouraging verb
and the skies, they stay sunny all day.

I dreamed last night that I was dying.
Late last night I swear that I was dyin’.
I woke up early this morning,
seemed like there was nothin’ more to lose.
It was a signed sealed and delivered
invitation to the blues.

With apologies to Roger Miller. Thanks for the hook Roger!

Meditation

I love the way clouds stampede
across blue prairie of Oklahoma sky
stretching to the horizon
an infinite vaporous herd
individual pale bison
kicking up swirling white miasma
that obscures lumbering
surreal behemoths within
I am a speck of dust
beneath their hooves
crushed by imaginary creatures
substantial beyond imagination
I am a wraith clinging frantically
to a feral soundless steed
composed of delicate
undulating wisps of mist
and no ascetic holy man
has ever known such trance

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Talking Dog Syndrome

Imagine a talking dog, but with a twist. The dog asks questions and acts interested. But, its’ grasp of your reply is the same as a normal non-verbal canine. This is essentially what happens in many meetings. It doesn’t matter what you say. You might as well be talkin’ to a dog.

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Ode to Oklahoma

What rhymes with Oklahoma?
Thinking about it puts me in a coma.
Laying in the sun with a melanoma
until I start givin’ off a bad aroma.
I don’t really understand the definition of soma,
even though I got me a college diploma.
Starin’ at a picture hangin’ in The MOMA
that was painted by a dude with a bad case of glaucoma.
Makin’ long distance calls to my momma in Tacoma
and munchin’ on a pile of tomatoes roma.
Close but no cigar for Manitoba and Arizona.
I think I’ll write a poem about Tennessee.
O!
I think I’ll write a poem about Tennessee.

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Ballad of My Coffeehouse Days

Got the idea from a TV show.
Or was it pictures in a magazine,
some kinda racket on the radio,
or singing stories on a movie screen?

I grew my hair until my parents screamed,
and wore my jeans as tight as I could stand.
I wrote some bad songs because how I dreamed
of playing loud in a rock and roll band.

It turned out I was never a joiner,
and I wound up where the folksinger plays.
At little cafes down on the corner
is where I started my coffeehouse days.

With a cheap dreadnaught guitar from Japan,
my ass alone on a line where it lays.
Somewhere between the fire and a pan
is how I live out my coffeehouse days.

Son, would you play for a tuna sandwich?
Sing to a small crowd recently deceased?
Yes! I’m your guy when I get a grand itch,
and my coffeehouse jones requires a grease.

These days they think I’m just an old stoner.
The payment never exceeds my outlays.
Existence has been just one big boner,
wasting my time with these coffeehouse days

Decades pass and I am never a star,
but that was never a reason to stay.
From inert hands they will snatch my guitar
before I wind up my coffeehouse days.

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Question About The Creator

The chaotic nature of life leaves me seriously doubting there is a supreme being involved in the day to day activities of each individual human. But looking at my life in retrospect, it does seem somebody knew what they were doing. I feel I never got to where I was going, but landed just where I’m supposed to be. Maybe, it was just dumb luck. Or perhaps, somebody up there really does like me.

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The Good Son

I can still see my father
standing by the open door.
Through the fire and the brimstone
you can hear the organ roar.
And the choir they are singing
songs of joy and peace.
No one was excluded
from that sweet release.

Come on in. The door is open.
Leave behind your worried mind.
There are no locks on heaven’s door
and the folks there treat you kind.
Through all your fear and sorrow,
and all the battles you should have won.
Come on in. You are welcome.
You have been the good son.

Since I saw the elephant
I’ve been a refugee
from small town Oklahoma
and a different century.
But I remember innocence
and all that I believed
in small town Oklahoma
before the elephant found me.

Come on in. The door is open.
Leave behind your worried mind.
There are no locks on heaven’s door
and the folks there treat you kind.
Through all your fear and sorrow,
and all the battles you should have won.
Come on in. You are welcome.
You have been the good son.

To me you are a stranger,
though I know you from my youth
when I went off to fight the war
and I learned about the truth.
The people that I met
were vicious and unkind.
And if they could not kill you,
they’d surely try to break your mind.

Come on in. The door is open.
Leave behind your worried mind.
There are no locks on heaven’s door
and the folks there treat you kind.
Through all your fear and sorrow,
and all the battles you should have won.
Come on in. You are welcome.
You have been the good son.

As I awoke
to the slamming of the door,
I knew that it was gone for good,
the place I was before.
To me you are my brother,
though I just met you today.
I know what you would give
just to hear somebody say:

Come on in. The door is open.
Leave behind your worried mind.
There are no locks on heaven’s door
and the folks there treat you kind.
Through all your fear and sorrow,
and all the battles you should have won.
Come on in. You are welcome.
You have been the good son.

Come on in. You are welcome.
You have been the good son.

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Hula Blue

i lost my heart to a wahine
down at the hala-kahiki bar
the way she flips my beanie
to the beat of slack guitar
she’s a kanaka maoli
from across the sea
makes me feel so hau ‘oli
hips that rock and roll me
shakes my oblongata medulla
when she does that blue hula
she does that blue, blue hula
just for me.

hula blue
hula blue
ain’t the way the missionaries do
they gave their admonition
ya’ll better adopt a new position
don’t keep on with your messin’ hula blue

it drives the kanes quite papule
down at the hala-kahiki bar
she strokes that ukulele
in a posture most bizarre
it’s a sensual sensation
grass skirt bur-le-que
and it gives me inspiration
to see that hula blue
shakes my oblongata medulla
when she does that blue hula
she does that blue, blue hula
just for me.

hula blue
hula blue
ain’t the way the missionaries do
they gave their admonition
ya’ll better adopt a new position
don’t keep on with your messin’ hula blue

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Morning Reminder

It’s always socks before your boots
Don your skivvies before the suit.
Make sure it’s all secured away,
before goin’ out to face the day.

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Anthem for Doomed Lovers

It ain’t natural they say
for love to last the years.
All lovers are doomed to stray,
lose interest and end in tears.
I don’t care if the way we
live don’t match their lie.
Without you baby
I’d be a cloud without a sky,
a tree without a ground,
a sea without a shore,
an ear without a sound,
a foot without a floor,
a lost that’s never found,
a singer without a note . . .
If love’s end ever seems true,
please recall lines here wrote:
I will love the dickens out of you,
as I have from the start,
every day more and more so
until my cold deceased heart
has left my torso.

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Prayer for the Lost Boys

When you were only children
this boy might have been a friend.
Now that you have grown to men
lost memories of youth will rend.
Souls lost Satan enjoys.
On street corners they stand.
You’ll find a host of Lost Boys,
who never found their Neverland.

Do you feel indignation
to see him out on the street
asking for a donation
to get him back on his feet?
He’ll soon be sauced with joy.
Could you lend him a hand?
He’s just another Lost Boy,
who never found his Neverland.

Would you call him a hobo?
A generation that’s beat?
Homeless freegan au go go?
Another bum or old freak?
He can really annoy,
with his constant demand:
“Can you help out a Lost Boy,
who never found his Neverland?”

Peter Pan, Peter Pan,
grown up to be worthless man.
Nothin’ to do to keep him livin’
but beg what’s free and freely given.
Did he chose to live this way?
Does he chose to live this way?

He ain’t no Woody Guthrie
and don’t live by Thoreau’s pond.
Pursuing philosophy
is not part of his monde.
There’s no art to employ
that explains such a brand.
Reaching out is a Lost Boy,
who never found his Neverland.

Don’t forget there is danger
from those with nothing to lose
when you help out a stranger
with problems likely a ruse.
But if a hand you deploy,
one way to understand:
Call it a gift to a Lost Boy,
who never found his Neverland.

Say a prayer for the Lost Boys,
who never found their Neverland.

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Siddhartha Gautama

Siddhartha Gautama was a human being who sat beneath a tree holding a sign that read: “Will Meditate for Food.” He was as successful at that as it is possible to be.

Word is he died fat and happy. Accounts of his death otherwise lack intelligibility.

Siddhartha liked to rap a lot about various subjects. Many people follow his ideas religiously. They call him Buddha, which means a dude who knows a lot about what it’s all about.

There are those who argue that Buddhism is merely a system of beliefs. But to the casual observer, Buddhists seem to worship Siddhartha as God. The temples, priests, monks, nuns, and whatnot leave that impression.

The followers of Jerry Garcia’s wisdom are called “Dead Heads.” Jerry also died fat and happy and liked to rap a lot about various subjects. I don’t know at what point guys like this become deities. Jerry isn’t there yet, although his fans’ behavior certainly borders on worship at times.

I believe Jerry’s problem is living after the advent of pants. Once it is established these are donned one leg at a time by the wearer, it’s hard to make the leap to divinity. Even though Jerry eventually grew too big for his britches, he bought bigger ones and put them on just like the rest of us. If only he had switched to kilts, who knows?

If Gautama and Garcia were both drowning and you could only save one of them, that would be a tough call. After all, nobody has ever heard Buddha play the Blues.

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Wa of Barbeque

It’s a quiet night at Earl’s Barbeque. Patrons watch the game and calmly enjoy their meals. The waitress smiles and takes our order. Cares of the day dissolve in anticipation of spicy comfort food.

A glow settles behind houses to the West as the sun takes a last peek over the horizon. It’s going to be a cool Oklahoma night.

Cerveza with lime will go down good with an order of ribs. Fried okra on the side.

At the table are people I love most and they’re smiling at me.

The man in the corner booth doesn’t appear a bit like trouble. Clean, conservative, model citizen by the look of him. When all the world is swirling towards doom, such a man might bring deliverance.

On this occasion, he has a sermon to deliver. It is not specifically directed to those at his table. The message reverberates the room like pulpit prophecy.

Attention must be paid: “I will give that sonabitch 60 seconds to get out of my sight before I start shootin’!”

Everyone must pay: “I’ve got the right to defend myself! Anybody don’t believe it? I’m countin’ to 10! Then, I don’t care who they are! If they’re still there, I’m blowin’ their heads off! That’s it!”

Checks are paid. The corner booth empties. Something heavy sags in a small bag the man carries by a draw string. He wearily exits to the parking lot. Streetlights flicker on as his vehicle accelerates out of sight

Spicy comfort food arrives. The ones I love most smile.

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Shakespearean Riddle

If an infinite number of monkeys sat at an infinite number of typewriters for an infinite number of years typing at random, it is a mathematical certainty they would produce inconceivable amounts of simian shit.

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Wild Man of Borneo:

I have an obscure fantasy:
Waltzing bare with a bone through my nose
along the shores of the Banda Sea
as a feral freak free of woes.

I would not join a carnival
and do a drooling dance in a cage.
In the back country I’d rather loll,
than gnaw live poultry in a rage.

I’d reject the world that we know
as a hermit by any standard.
Call me the Wild Man of Borneo!
I’d be the ultimate dastard.

Not one of those poncy pirates
serves such terror to those they might host.
Forget about escaping inmates.
The untamed scare the public most.

Free as a rich aristocrat,
like Howard Hughes with a wild ass stare.
I’d throw dust and sticks and kick your cat
and tight wedgie your underwear.

Bandits can be most alarming.
They’ll rob you and shoot off a big gun.
But wild men seem so much less charming.
They’re dudes who just want you to run.

What glee I would feel unfettered
without saddle or hobble or bit.
Caked with mud and prancing all feathered,
under Borneo’s moon I’d flit.

But the traffic light is changing.
My wife pokes my arm and shouts: “It’s green!”
Reality is rearranging
and brings me back here on the scene.

Daydreams will follow as we go
through our lives that can feel quite inane.
Maybe that Wild Man of Borneo
keeps my brain this side of insane.

Oogah! Boogah!
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Wednesday Morning:

Everybody is on cranky patrol today,
in case somebody might be in a pleasant mood.
“Good morning” is not the thing to say.
And if good attitude is imbued?
“God damn it! Not today!”
Smiles are out, it’s understood.
Prisoners taken? No! No way!
Where does anybody get off feeling good?
There is mother . . . fucking . . . hell to pay!
Nobody, and I do mean nobody, should
have a nice day!
So shut it up if you would
have a good word to say.
They’ll find your carcass in the wood
if you don’t watch your step today.

Geez Louise.
. . .

Burma Shave

How long was I dreaming?
Sitting at the wheel
Steering with my forehead
Sitting on my thumb
Careening down this highway
In my automobile
Runnin’ over road signs
Just to break the tedium
Well the road
Is muddy
Where it ends
Is your grave
And the punch line
Old buddy
Reads Burma Shave

Saw the Buddha in my headlights
That old son of a bitch
Swerved with the purpose
Just to end his little game
He bounced off the fender
And disappeared into the ditch
He moves fast for a fat man
Threw off my aim
Well the road
Is muddy
Where it ends
Is your grave
And the punch line
Old buddy
Reads Burma Shave

Head cop in my rearview
Head cop up ahead
A fireplace in the basement
Mansions in the sky
Stopped to help a holy man
Whose face was turning red
While chanting for the innocent
He swallowed down a fly
Well the road
Is muddy
Where it ends
Is your grave
And the punch line
Old buddy
Reads Burma Shave

Okie Zen:

If you pass the Buddha on the stairs, he will likely be too winded to say anything more profound than "how ya doin'?"

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Lori's Song

I called up my momma. I thought she should be the first. Then I flagged down a Venusian, sent the word through the universe. Now I’m goin’ through the phone book tellin’ everyone I can. I love Lori Ann. I’m in love with Lori Ann.

I see her across a crowded room, it feels like we’re alone. And when I’m feelin’ out of place she loves me right to home. And nobody’s goin’ home tonight until they understand. I love Lori Ann. I’m in love with Lori Ann.

When I see my Lori smile I feel just like a king. I look into her blue eyes, it makes my soul sing. And when she’s lovin’ me each night I’m glad that I’m the man who loves Lori Ann. I’m in love with Lori Ann.

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The Guitar is a Transposing Instrument
(A jargon laden rap probably incomprehensible to anyone but musicians)


FAQs:

“What is a transposing instrument?”
Transposing in this context means that notation for some musical instruments is not written where the notes actually sound. When playing a notated C Natural on a B-Flat trumpet, the note players are trained to blow is actually a B-Flat. It gets worse. Improvising on an E-Flat Saxophone in an ensemble, the player will ask the pianist what key the tune is in (say the key of A major). E-Flat is C so F Sharp would be the correct key for the Sax to play along in A.

As the song goes: “I’m my own grandpa!”

“WHAT? I’ve been playing the guitar for forty years, and it is not a transposing instrument!”
Sorry. But the fact is when a guitarist plays the C on the third space of treble clef, the note actually sounding is middle C (the ledger line between treble and bass clefs). Guitar notation transposes an octave above concert pitch.

When Carlos Santana is screaming those oh so high notes way up the neck, in concert pitch he is actually only getting to the top of the treble clef. Standard guitar notation would put him many ledger lines above the staff, but it’s just a mirage created by whoever decided guitar music should transpose an octave. The low E string of the guitar is notated below the third ledger line under treble clef, but actually sounds a staggering 7 ledger lines below the staff (or one ledger line below bass clef).

As the song goes: “Don’t Bogart that joint, my friend.”

WHAT? That’s wack!
Personally, I would prefer guitar be written in concert pitch using two staffs the way piano music is. The thinking probably is that it’s easier to read and write the music in one clef. So, they cram over 3 octaves into a one octave staff? To me, the complication of learning to read bass clef would be a lot simpler than dealing with all those ledger lines. When I rule the universe, that’s the way it’s going to be. So, get ready!

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Coyote Moon

It was the moon of the coyote’s dream. He climbed to the top of the world and howled at the moon until the sky was as blue as the blue of her eyes. And the moon was a swirl of white. It danced in a blue starlight. He dreamed that moon followed him the rest of his life.

It was the tale of a man and his wife. They climbed to the top of the world and the blue that he saw in her eyes was as blue as the coyote sky. And the moon was a swirl of white. It danced in a blue starlight. That moon followed them the rest of their lives.

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Sandcastles
(written with much assistance from Mr. Lanny Fiegenschuh)

Leonardo laid down with his back to the sand, but he was too old, too fat to really expect to get tanned. The beach was patrolled by skinny young girls wearing just a thong, and guys like Leonardo just do not belong. He was a portrait of a middle aged artist in the sand.

Sandcastles swept away by the sea. When that tide rolls in, what’s goin’ to happen to me? Will I be a new man, or just a washed out used to be?

Leonardo saw Pablo in his baggy pants. He was wavin’ a flashlight and doin’ a real goofy dance. Leonardo asked Pablo: “Do you call that art?” Pablo said: “It’s bullshit! But it comes from the heart.” It was a portrait of a middle aged artist in the sand.

Sandcastles swept away by the sea. When that tide rolls in, what’s goin’ to happen to me? Will I be a new man, or just a washed out used to be?

Vincent said to Don: “Now you just won’t understand ’til your ear’s in a matchbox and your hearts in the sand. Playin’ the fool outside some ratty woman’s door while your dreams drift away from the shore.”

Sandcastles swept away by the sea. When that tide rolls in, what’s goin’ to happen to me? Will I be a new man, or just a washed out used to be?

Salvadore looked back from the edge of the sea. But torsos in the sand dunes was all he could see. Leonardo painted saints across the sky. Felt the waves on his fingertips and saw his life drifting by. He was a portrait of a middle aged artist in the sand.

Sandcastles swept away by the sea. When that tide rolls in, what’s goin’ to happen to me? Will I be a new man, or just a washed out used to be?

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Stroker and the Devil

Stroker tells his nightmare
Laughs and drinks a beer
Life would pass beyond all care
But the devil sits right here

Devil live on Stroker
Been 30 years and more
He’s won every hand of poker
Since they came home from the war

Sometimes I whistle in the dark
And I laugh when there ain’t no joke
I swear I hear that bulldog bark
Hear things that can’t be spoke

Stroker tells his nightmare
To everyone he sees
Carries the devil everywhere
And pays the devil’s fees

Stroker wears a casual smile
With napalm in his eyes
He can’t shake the devil’s guile
No matter how he tries

Sometimes I whistle in the dark
Laugh when there ain’t no joke
I swear I hear that bulldog bark
Hear things that can’t be spoke

Looking for an angel
With power over pain
To drive away the devil
And bring us home again

Sometimes I whistle in the dark
Laugh when there ain’t no joke
I swear I hear that bulldog bark
Hear things that can’t be spoke

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The Pinstriped Man.

I love stories about Western Swing pioneer Bob Wills. Living in Oklahoma, I run into a lot of people who heard Wills during his prime. They all have a good story to tell. Bob Wills and his Texas Playboys had a reputation for hard drinking, bare knuckle fighting, and being one of the best live bands ever. Bob Wills also had a reputation as a very honest and generous man.

My favorite Bob Wills story was told by guitar legend Eldon Shamblin, and the Playboy’s drummer Smokey Dacus. It was on a PBS documentary/tribute to Bob Wills aired few years ago. I’ll try to do the story justice.

Wills based his Texas Playboys out of Cain’s Ballroom in Tulsa, Oklahoma through much of the 1930s and 40s. They rehearsed there in the afternoon.

These were hard economic times all around. Every week or so a man wearing pinstripe overalls came into Cain’s. It was always a different person. But for some reason, he always wore pinstripe overalls. The man walked up to Wills and told his story. The story never varied. His mother was out in California. She’d taken ill and was expected to die. If Mr. Wills could just spare fifty dollars, the man could make it out to see his mother one last time. The amount asked for was always fifty dollars.

Bob Wills never hesitated. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a money clip, peeled off a hundred dollars and gave it to the man. Expressing his gratitude, money in hand, the pinstriped man quickly disappeared.

When Wills turned around, he saw the guys in the band shaking their heads and smirking. He always said the same thing: “Well . . . he was probably lying. But, I just couldn’t take the chance.”

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Ballad of Arthur MacAll

A sepia image of Arthur MacAll
Hangs in a frame on an art house wall
Posing so still, so carefree
Noose around his neck, hanging in a tree
There’s nothing to tell the reason why
It’s so photogenic, the way men die
Some might say art imitates death
A bowl of fresh fruit, or a guy’s last breath
Don’t mean nothing to Arthur MacAll
Don’t mean a thing to Arthur MacAll

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Coyote Roy’s Notes from the Subterrestrial Rim:

Further Thoughts on the Art of Songwriting.

There once was an artist named Ken Kesey. He was a writer and used metaphors in his work.

Ken Kesey participated in a study of hallucinatory drugs. He became interested in the mind expanding qualities of these drugs and conducted his own study. The results were not published in any medical journal, but did attract a lot of volunteers. The volunteers were called The Merry Pranksters.

Other artists like Tom Wolfe wrote about The Merry Pranksters. Whether he intended it or not, Kesey became more famous as a counter culture guru than a writer. He used metaphors in his art.

Back in the day, The Pranksters rode a school bus named “Further.” Further took Kesey and The Pranksters to many places. The places were not important. The important thing was whether one was “on the bus or off the bus.” It was a question Kesey might ask you in any context: “Are you on the bus, or off the bus?” Kesey was not asking if you wanted a ride to Woodstock.

Once upon a time there was a person called The Kid. TK wanted to write his own rock and roll songs. Although he didn’t call it that (nobody called it that), what he was trying to do sounded a lot like art. He wasn’t using brushes or oil paint or nothing. But TK really wanted to express something in his own way and maybe other people would hear it.

After a few years, TK became frustrated at the lack of progress. TK took a seminar, paid for it actually, where they told him he had to set goals and take steps to achieve those goals. TK thought maybe playing in some local clubs would be doable.

TK studied the problem. First he found out none of the musicians in local clubs were playing original music. The successful people were playing other people’s music. It also turned out the local club owners were really looking for a Cajun band. People who like Cajun music drink a lot, and the club owners really wanted them in their bar!!

TK never really thought about Cajun music, but found some other musicians, learned some Cajun songs and put together an act. Soon he was playing in local clubs. However, he wasn’t playing rock and roll, wasn’t playing his own songs, and it didn’t feel much like art.

The Kid got somewhere, but somehow got off the bus getting there.

Back in the day, The Pranksters rode a school bus named “Further.” Further took Kesey and The Pranksters to many places. The places were not important. The important thing was whether one was “on the bus or off the bus.” It was a question Kesey might ask you in any context: “Are you on the bus, or off the bus?” Kesey was not asking if you wanted a ride to Nashville.

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A Peace of My Mind

Peace has been on my mind a lot lately. I was struck by a comment David Letterman made the other night when the topic turned to his son Harry. It was something along the lines of how hard it is to think about war when you love your children.

It made me realize that my own son is about the age I was when the United States went to war in Southeast Asia. The thing I remember about the ten years that followed is every time I watched television, read a newspaper or magazine, listened to the radio, or even talked to people the war was on. It permeated every aspect of life with the specter of horrific death on a grand scale. Supposedly, that ended over 30 years ago. I think about it every day.

Thankfully, my son is too young to go to war. But, I wonder about how the news of Middle East wars dominate his days. Just like the Southeast Asian conflict, there is no sensible answer to what it’s all about. The current thinking seems to be the tar baby paradigm. We’re just bogged down with no clear way out. Sounds familiar.

Would it be such a bad world if there were no wars to fight? We walk around like we’re the most intelligent beings to ever rule the planet. Yet, we expect different results as we initiate the same kind of ill considered military actions that failed before. Our own stupidity is as much a threat to our security and prosperity as any foreign enemy. How long will our nation survive if we don’t wise up?

Peace is not a heroic vision of glory. There’s not much romantic Spartan adventure involved. The payoff is a day we can look at our children and not feel a chill up the spine. I really don’t think it will happen in my time. But like the bumper sticker says, sometimes I “Visualize World Peace.” Would it be such a bad thing?

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The Answer

Sometimes I feel lost on a desolate plain, where the wind rips the soles of my shoes. It tears my eyes, howls in my ears, and grabs at my hair and my clothes. If I open my heart and surrender my pain, I flutter away like a cloud. I join everyone who has gone before, and those who have yet to arrive.

Looking up form the depth of the ocean I swear I see shimmering stars. Too soon we will know the answer and maybe we'll laugh pretty loud.

Don’t bother to ask the big question about the future beyond the end. Let’s just say we fall in with a river that flows to the eternal sea. Lights in the depth of the ocean sparkle as stars in the sky. Drawn to a flame we must answer to whatever lies beyond.

Looking up form the depth of the ocean I swear I see shimmering stars. Too soon we will know the answer and maybe we'll laugh pretty loud.

Sometimes when I sit in an empty room, I hear voices that no longer speak and I’m tempted to ask the big question about the future beyond the end. If I open my heart and surrender my pain, I flutter away on the stream. I drift with the current of water rushing down to the eternal sea.

Looking up from the depth of the ocean, I swear I see shimmering stars. Too soon we will know the answer, and maybe we’ll laugh pretty loud. Too soon we will know the answer, and together we will laugh pretty loud.

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White Man Down: A Conservative Calypso!

White man down!
White man down!
Racists keepin’ the White Man down!
Sonia sound like a Socialist noun
Sotomayor – Keepin’ the White Man down!

Sotomayor – Keepin’ the White Man down!

Newt Gingrich twittered the town
Sotomayor – Keepin’ the White Man down!
White civil rights is gonna drown
Sotomayor – Keepin’ the White Man down!

Rush Limbaugh’s head spun aroun’
Sotomayor – Keepin’ the White Man down!
Don’t her face look a little bit brown?
Sotomayor – Keepin’ the White Man down!

Pat Buchanan spoke uptown
Sotomayor – Keepin’ the White Man down!
Hair standin’ up like a rodeo clown
Sotomayor – Keepin’ the White Man down!

Ann Coulter soiled her gown
Sotomayor – Keepin’ the White Man down!
Shot the camera an awful frown
Sotomayor – Keepin’ the White Man down!

White Man down!
White Man down!
Racists keepin’ the White Man down!
Sonia sound like a Socialist noun
Sotomayor – Keepin’ the White Man down!

Sotomayor – Keepin’ the White Man down!

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