10/27/2017



CRACKER LE BLANC

Le Blanc, Le Blanc,
I hear your voice,
It resounds through this grove,
And through its thinkness,
Across this field of corn
Fields of yams,
Fields of cane,
For I am but a farmer,
A servant to the land,
You tend to your cattle,
That graze upon the open land
Neath the tall loblolly pines,
That grace this majestic prairie,
That stands west of the grove,
And across the fields,
I hear the sweetness of your call,
Your cattle call, a ta ya, a ta ya,
Come a ta ya, a ta ya,
Here come a ta ya, a ta ya,
That only a French tongue can speak,
I hear the crack of your whip,
Braided of the finest leather,
By your great grandfather,
Who first brought cattle to this range,
As you drive your cattle,
Cross the hammocks,
That form the bottom land,
Of this Sabine land,
And through the Baygual, of hardwoods,
Here upon the open grassland,
You Le Blanc, are a tender of cattle,
Here in Acadie,  our home,
And I hear the sweetness of your call,
And the crack of that ancient whip,
A ta ya,  A ta ya,
Come a ta ya, here a come a ta ya,
Come you bovines,
Let's get through this grove,
To where the grass is sweet,
So I can get home to Lorrine,
Her supper is to be eat,
Come a ta ya, here come a ta ya..

written 1998, Santa Rosa, CA
published oct 27...17...


A SONG FOR LUCINDA WILLIAMS


Stephanie Davis walked into the kitchen, and I followed like a Catahoula Hound, with Wilhem Matthews nipping at my heels,  he a hybrid Chihuahua, and it turns into a late night session with Rambin Jack,  this was before he was thrown from a wild Nevada bronc, somewhere outside of Winnemucca, and unable to buy either a horse nor a whore,  he sets out hitchhiking.

He flags down a ride with Kerouac and Guy Clark,  riding in the back of Guy's 49 Ford,  along with well worn tack and saddles,  that  Kerouac must have stolen from some Wyoming cowboy, or else they would not have been on the run,  with a dust trail following them thru the Ruby Mountains, they headed towards Wells or maybe it was Paradise, with this trey at stole.

One never knows,  still her voice makes me PINE O LA, thoughts  of jumping off La Fittte's Bridge,  I had to Crescent City,  she brags her brother knows of some good bars there.  When suddenly my mind recalls what Mike Beck had said about her performance up there in Montana several years back, saying to me she was a 'bitch', but still,  I stand here in the city  of Saint Francis, with a ticket in my hand here on Geary Blvd, waiting to hear the gurl from west of the Calcasieu that flows through sulphured air, so roll up your window Cher,  if you want to breath,  for you are in the land of those that walked the water, Marcia Ball and Gatemouth Brown,  and a long satiddy nite amid croaking bullfrogs and gars scanning the river banks.

(NOTE) ...written in  Santa Rosa, ca  1998... This was before I saw her at the Fillmore out on Geary, and did not know she had written about Lake Charles, and talked about the character jumping off a Lake Charles Bridge.. Amazing, we both had the same thoughts in our separate minds..

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