wanna go to heaven...

WHY MATHETICIANS, ECONOMISTS AND STATISTICIANS CAN'T GET TO HEAVEN

On the same day two 60 year olds, Edsel and Lexus are recalled and brought to the gates by the four horsemen; the first horse is a beautiful white Arabian that St. Peter comments must have been a trade acquired by Edwin Duhon from some Saudi Prince for some land in Holly Beach before Rita hit; The second was a few leopard spotted Appaloosa that St. Peter felt must have been broken by Chief Joseph himself.

Followed by the third, a mustang which must have been the one that put Buck Ramsey in the chair, and the last of the four is a scraggly, Florida cracker horse which must have been owned by Carl Sharp.

The two are delivered and placed in front of St. Peter and he begins his inquest of their lives.

The first, Edsel;

Comments that his life was spent on drink and drugs, to which St. Peter remarks that it says in the book of Genesis to take of the herbs of the fields, and that Jesus, did drank wine with the Apostles, and is given his gold card to get through the gate.

The second, Lexus;

In his inquisition by St. Peter is asked of his performance on earths terra floor; to which he remarks that his life was spent playing with some log rhythms while skewing some numbers, thus St. Peter shouts, you have broken one of the most holiest of commandments, thou shall not for not cate...The statistician in his most logical mind attempts to explain the method as how to skew some numbers while working with log rhythms, St. Peter becomes even more outraged charging him with blasphemy on top of the earlier charge. Thus Lexus is thrown from heaven to the fire below.

Remember, to get to heaven it is easier if you use drugs and drink, rather than to spend you life as a statistician who skew numbers or a mathaticians who plays with log rhythms.

Sacred Ground

To Raven, To Raven
He sings his songs,
His calls are short,
But they do last long,
To Crow his brother,
Who flies the valley below,
High above the antelope,
And the plains Buffalo.

Doves flutter among the brush,
As does the wren and thrust,
Living off the bounty of insects,
That arive with the evening winds,
High above the peaks,
The peregrin takes flight,
Among the hilltops,
The Raven songs unflur,
While in the valley below,
Resides the Crow.

Along with the wren and thrust,
The doves flutter in the brush,
There in the evening dusk,
This is their home,
This is their sacred ground.


To watch Hank Real Bird deliver his poetry, a native of verse, is to watch the birds dance upon the ground...Rambin Jack and I were awaitin, trying to get into the room to hear Hank read,
and Hank passed us, and Jack with the tip of his hat, greeted Hank...Hank replied that he was not Hank...Jack managed to get in before me, and eventually I did get in, and was able to watch and hear Hank verse as it flew like a crow through the air...that night, in the "Upper Room", I saw Hank and approached him...I asked Hank who was that man across from him, he introduced him as his brother Henry...the trickers...the coyote...the crow brothers...Hank is the poet...Henry is the artist...and to have these two brothers play that coyote tricker on ole Jack was an opportune not to be missed...and I was caught in their trap as well...I spotted two Ravens one afternoon on the ground and thus came this piece...bless the crow and his brother....

SCARLET AND PURPLE

They rode for they were this nations rounders,

Across the plains of Kansas

And along the Tejas Llano,

And in the wake of their dust,

Bordellos rose up like violets and roses,

Aside those rounder trails,

Colors of scarlet and purple,
Of blood and passion,
Heat and rain,
Filled the upper rooms,
Trail dust like winters snow,
Fell from the brims,
That hid their young brows,
And from their legs,
Removed torn deerskin and yellowdog chaps,
Scarred by mesquite and barb,
Leaving youth and innocence,
Exposed in rooms of scarlet and purple...

They mounted and rode through the night,
Herders gathering around a campfire light,
For they were this nations rounders,
Driving steers through rabbits,
And herds of the majestic buffalo,
And past tee-pees that graced the plains,
Young men whose youth fled,
And whose bodies harden as steel,
And as time fled became tired,
With rope burnt hands,
Fingers wrapped in pain,
That good Irish whiskey could not end,
For they were the youth,
Rounders for the nation,
There upon Kansas plains,
And the Llano of Tejas,
Whose pain was comforted,
In rooms of scarlet and purple.



One of the real few that I have admired in my life, was the late great George Smith of Sebastopol, who built a turn of the centuryactual town behind his house, in his apple orchard; having acquired set design skills from working on sets in/for Hollywood as a young man, and his last project on this GeorgeTown... in our last visit together...discussed his final project...was the corner bar and bordello upstairs....he both became in later years a Sonoma County Fair Director...I trust that it was not he that took all of Willies Tickets which caused Willie to tell the Fair Board c.1976--- to take the Fair and shove it...but greatly as well, created a most beautiful campus at SSU, taking a bare piece of seed field and landscaped it beyond belief...

Three Dollar Shirt

T'was on Sunday he sat, there upon the pew,
In his three dollar shirt, for in his youth,
He was known as "the Kingfish",
His brother was a shadow boxer,
Who danced about the light,
Of the river campfire night,
While my brothers and me,
Tried to sleep, while fighting mosquitoes,
There under the netting, watching and listening,
To these two brothers tell their tales,
There upon the banks of Bowl Slough...

The week before, he saddled his horse,
And rode into the river bottom,
Bringing back A fine hog,
And tied behind his saddle,
Were six shoats in two gunny sacks,
For to town he did take,
And sold down at Saturdays barn,
Returning with flour, salt n' soda,
Nor a cent was spent on whiskey,
Or playing a game of cards,
But he did buy himself a three dollar shirt,
Which he wore tis Sunday day...
Remarks were quietly made,
As he entered the church,
Saying that he looks just like Huey P.,
When Huey came through this land...

Huey P. came and stood,
There on that charred pine stump,
They said was burnt by the Pentecost,
When lighting struck on a sunny day,
Huey P. preached from that stump,
And sounded like a coon hound,
Who had treed a coon,
And telling that coon, you may be higher than me,
But eventually, you will want a persimmon,
I will stay here and bay,
Until you come down from that tree.

We sat upon the wagon of cane, and bags of peanuts,
And after he had finished, and came to visit us all,
We offered Huey P. some,
He said that he took not from the poor farmer,
But if you vote for me,
I will take from Standard Oil,
He was there too,
Listening to Huey P.,
Standing by the Pentecostal stump,
But today, he sits quietly in his pew,
In his three dollar shirt,
And as always, at request time,
He sings in his piney woods cowboy voice,
There in that three dollar shirt,
Just a closer walk with thee,
Oh Jesus, hear this cowboy plea...


This was inspired by a man who I grew up with, and around the 8th grade, he dropped out, as did several of the men who I grew up with...I and one other man stayed the twelve year course, having picked up another one in our sixth year, a year older than us...This man dropped out from harassment over his $3 dollar shirts...His father was a logger and employed as many as he could...He eventually, I learned got his GED, and got into college...His conversation inspired me...There were many of us there in those classrooms with $3 dollar shirts...Many had home made flour sack shirts...My baptism shirt I cherished...One of the few cloth shirts I ever owned...The real value in anyone is the internal value....This I learned in my Economist education...And the best education is from the village that you came from....from story tellers who had a message to deliver...

She Was Just An Old Woman

To some, she was just an old woman,

others had an everlasting love for her,

whose spirit was both stern and compassionate,

to those that she guarded and delivered.

Her yard was always swept,

with borders of blooms,

and at her porch's edge,

grew her masterpiece,

where the rainwaters dripped.

Her labors of love,

over quilts and patched jeans,

a trade she fulfilled,

while sitting in her porch rocker,

with her incantations of job.

To some, she was just an old woman,

others had an everlasting name love for her

they knew that the name she carried,

was but an earthly passing...

I read this a number of years back in Elko, at one of my first readings, much like the late Montana poet, who met me outside Colorado Springs where I read, commented me on the piece that I read there...Skinny Rowland...Skinny had a saying that he wrote to forget, not to remember. ..I liked this honestly of the late Montanan Cowboy...And to honored by such a great American meant much to me...I write not to remember but to get that "stuff' out of my head...Again, the year that I read this piece, after I had left the room at the Elko Convention center, there stood the great-sober...-the old horse doctor himself...baster black... He commented on this verse, and to have received such an acknowledgement was if Faulkner, Hemingway, or other greats had posed their positive thoughts......One nite at the upper room above the Stockmans Cansino before he got hitched up behind the plow again...baster was leaning up against the wall with his chair, there in the corner, fearful that if he moved his recliner would collapse...I would dare not to call him intoxicated, but I felt that he was securing that wall whereas it would not fall upon us...Reclined with such balance...Ian would might say that the cowboys gets drunk and the muse places his lyrics in balance....

Dashboard Beating Hicks

---the character "comer w.", I met in Santy Rosa while sitting in the back of my 71 toyota listing to a tape of Townes Van Zant..approached me telling me some crazy story that he knew townes...my thoughts...bs...hey you bum, next you gonna tell me you know jesus and budda...eventually he did introduce me to Townes in SF, who he knew from Nashville...Townes turned me on to the poetry (in book form) of Hank Sr...Comer was from Montgomery, and his tales told of taking Steve Young, after they had mecca at Hanks grave and drank 90 proof, down a road, a majestic southern road...Steve Young wrote SEVEN BRIDGES ROAD...there is something in us southern boys that the rest envy....comer w. was back on the west coast to make amends to his daughter who just finished highschool, as of 97, comer had 13 years in AA...like hank, townes slipped away on new years eve...


Down dusty Alabama roads,
Lester and Comer,
in Earls '49 Studebaker pickup,
like a ball of lighting they drove.

Lester doing the wheeling,
Comer sitting shotgun like a fat cat,
there tuning the radio to Virginia,
and Appalacian at that.

Lester drove faster than Flatt,
with Comer beating the dash,
Alabama rednecks in mid summer heat,
aheading to Montgomery's back streets.

Outside of Selma,
in a sudden Southern summer rain,
Redmud sticking to wornout tires,
couldn't stop this redneck fireball train.

Hank's a coming to Montgomery tonight,
the Wheeling announcer did say,
Comer beat the dashboard harder,
Merci Jesus, let us pray.

Two rednecks in a studebaker pickup,
high fashion in that day,
of Irish and Scotish ancesors,
their rednecks transcends till this day.

Beating the dash,
was more than a kick,
Hank's music was pure poetry,
to these Alabama hicks.

Setting the woods of fire,
for I saw the light,
to hear your cheating heart,
on a warm Montgomery night.

Driving faster than Flatt,
with Scrugg's "moon"lighting by the jug,
Comer pounding on the dash,
to the windowsill up above.

Swing wide your gate of love,
I'll never more roam,
these two Rednecks have kept their word,
for Montgomery's native son is coming home.

JUS AN OLE BULL

...this is taken from my collection...SOUTHERN SKIES AND TRAIL BOSSES LIES...I HAD E MAILED IT TO BEN ZION NOTIFIYING THAT I WOULD NOT BE AT DR. VAN GIESONS RETIREMENT AS CHAIR OF THE ECON. DEPT...A WOMAN WHO I HAD HAD A CLASS WITH AND WHO EVENTUALLY AQUIRED HER LAW DEGREE, WHEREAS, I WENT UDDER ROUTES...INFORMED ME IT WAS MOST RECIEVED BY DICK...IT WAS NOT WRITTEN FOR HIM BUT INSPIRED BY A BULL I SAW IN THE PASTURE...TO BE A TRUE ECONOMIST, ONE HAS TO HAVE A LOT OF BULL, AND APPARENTLY DR VAN GIESON APPARENTLY HAD IT IN HIM, I ONLY TOOK HIM AS A TEACHER, NOT A BULL....ER.....

he is just an ole bull,
standing there, by the side of the road,
a freeway, where into the North Country,
it races, narrows, wrapping around,
those gentle species,
where the ferns and redwoods grow,
which mix with the doe and her fawn,
there grazing upon her floor,
where mushrooms and fungi flourish,
for this is her mix,
still, in his solitude,
he stands there, transfixed,
standing there, by the side of the road.

he, is just an ole bull,
with lines of age,
sags be where they may,
do note his many days,
grazing upon new spouted grass,
here in this valley,
as late Fall rains fall,
bringing this new growth,
as the big black oaks,
that circle his field,
and cover the nearby hills,
remove their Summer camouflauge,
barren becomes their limbs,
exposing, their lines, defining,
their age and form,
upon this valleys hills,
as he stands, just an ole bull,
there by the side of the road.

he, is jus an ole bull,
whose eyes gaze at the horizon,
and see the rising puffs of steam,
released from the geysers,
and watch the clouds,
float above Cobb and St. Helen mountains,
which when rain falls this night,
will drop a light snow,
there upon this land,
still, he stands in his solitude,
he, is jus an ole bull,
standing by the side of the road.

he, is just an ole bull,
and out of reach,
are golden poppies that flower,
emerge in this dark season,
our light through these darken days,
there among the new grass,
and his thoughts turn,
to that heifer who,
soon will give her first calf,
hopeful, that this be

Homeage to Buck

this planet is filled with two legged beings walkin on their hind quarters, filled with grunts, in effort to communicate with other beings...few have earn this right, and the late BUCK RAMSEY whose verse and songs are greater than the exception, has ...after I first encountered this "Man", I had to pen some thoughts on him, now after re-settling on the ranch here, several months ago I finally managed to get the "airmail" box up in his honor...Buck Ramsey on the south side, and on the north is the title of one of the greatest verses written in this previous century...ANTHEM...(thoughts have been to post this verse, rather, I encourage seekers to find his verse and his music)...I feel most blessed to have had an audience with him shortly after he received his National Hertiage Award, luckily enough that same Elko night to catch the great Ramblin Jack Elliott with him, also who had recently gotten his NHA....some travel to Rome to kiss the popes ring, it was worth fighting the cold to get to Elko to kneal and touch the chair of Buck....it was hard to catch up with Buck as he rolled about Elko, for he was constantly in lead of from 20 to 30 who had to have what Buck had...like a she dog in heat...Buck had it. Buck was a sure fire Texas buckaroo.......

The canyon rim has been long and steep,
With grace the steed carried its rider,
For many years, a loyal companion,
Traveling the land they both loved,
And at times, the ride appeared to be,
A million miles of scrub.

Just a shepard, he was,
Out searching and comforting,
The strays and injured bovines,
The steed and rider lives together,
Were as close as a couple out on the floor,
Just a walsing, too grand for any applause.

Their time together, words can never speak
of it in a book,
And as a leaf falls from a mighty oak,
The steed gave away, we know know the tale,
and in ending this piece of prose,
I will announce,
that it is time to say,
that you are still a true to life Buck-a-roo.

cats and curs

they are telling this story up in De Ridder about the feed store...it seems that a Louisiana cur dog...that is a high bred yellow dog favored by the ole time hog hunters, uncle john and fred spikes and such...a local citizen of that city twas walkin down the street with his cur 'some more', when off the banister of this fine porch jumped this persian beauty, and before lighting could strike the ground, that cat had whooped that cur dog...he had to be rushed by paramedics to the Baptist Hospital where his shredded particulars had to be severed, leaving him with a high pitch howl, if you could call it that...as soon as he had recovered physically, his owner took him out hunting for hogs up on upper Brushy Creek...the piney woods rooters had heard of what had happened, for it seems that words travel fast with the swine crowd...must be that muscadine wine they drank...well, these swine were just awaitin, they had made lais out of palmetto leaves and confederate roses and as that high pitch howl cur dog entered the woods, the snickering of those muscadine drunk piney woods rooters set in...full of off color comments of "his royal-hindness" while tossing out these palmetto\confederate rose lais before him as he entered the piney...as he tried to cur, his high pitch howl only set them off more...embarassed, his owner made ole "some more" jumped back into the truck...they headed to Houston and hired a big shot libel attorney and are suing this persian for bodily damages and humiliation unjustly inflicted on this innoncent yellow cur.....the case has not been brought to trial yet, for they cannot sequester a jury of his 'peers', and 99.99% of those interviewed for the jury have to be taken out of the court in hysterics...this trial will most likely take years to be resolved, and there will be no dependents to get the settlement, resulting from the injuries caused by the persian on this cur dog....stay tuned to court tv and fair and balanced newsnetworks for the latest update...

this was a close friend of mine...roscoe beauregard

RUBY DONT TAKE YOUR LOVE TO TOWN

Ruby, oh ruby, dont take your love to town,
once you get there and walk around,
all you will find is a redbone hound,
and he will follow you around,
he gonna wanta take you,
way back into the country,
promissing a picnic,
down by the lake.

That picnic you two will partake,
this will be your first mistake,
for as he had promissed,
he will spread that picnic around,
there upon the ground,
and with his paw across your breast,
he will point to the stars above,
swearing his love is true.

By falls harvest moon,
fifteen pups you will have,
to follow you around,
and this you will final regret,
your lover hound,
he will be long gone,
heading down that lonesome highway,
and there you will hear his sound,
under a full cajun moon,
out following another scent.

Ruby, OH Ruby dont take your love to town.

beautify america DONT LITTER......