Now! More than ever - 8 Day Miracle Jam

Dec 2004
hester_prynne

Post by hester_prynne » December 10th, 2004, 9:44 pm

X
Mark's da spot.
hot hot hot,
use your skill,
rhyme if you will,
but if not,
give it all you got

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Lightning Rod
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Post by Lightning Rod » December 10th, 2004, 9:49 pm

True Ballad of Jesse James
(Sherwood Ross)

Jesse James was no lad
He was grown and he was bad,
He robbed the Glendale train.
He was 34 years old
And his only god was gold
To get rich, 15 poor folks were slain.

cho1:Poor Jesse, my heart bleeds
For his millionaire-style needs
He killed with Quantrell's raiders for the South;
When his side lost the war
He just kept killin' like before
He's a hand, a cold heart
And quite a big mouth.

Fourteen men and a girl died
In the dust when Jesse'd ride
The girl trampled at the Kansas fair;
He blew railroad men to hell
And three Pinkertons as well
And liked to write the press
He wasn't there.

In that bloody Northfield fight
They killed two in broad daylight,
Jesse shot the teller in the head;
But the townfolk showed great heart
The shot the gang apart
'Til two of Jesse's thugs lay dead.

cho2:Poor Jesse was not poor
That's a lot of horse manure
He stole half a million from the till;
He was 34 years old
And his only god was gold
And nary a single rich man did he kill.
To notoriety a slave
He'd write the press and rave
Hardly your poor man's saviour;
As for the dirty little coward
Who shot Mister Howard
Why Robert Ford did the world a favor.

Hurrah for Jesse? Save your breath
He left a trail of blood and death
Across a dozen Midwestern states;
Cold-blooded in his wrath
He was your common sociopath
Lyung was one of Jesse's nobler traits.

Be on your way,
Billy Gashade
Who the old James ballad made;
Historians see little truth there in it;
One thing your pack of lies
Has made me realize
There's a press agent born every minute.

cho2:

Copyright Sherwood Ross
RG
"These words don't make me a poet, these Eyes make me a poet."

The Poet's Eye

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Lightning Rod
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Post by Lightning Rod » December 10th, 2004, 10:03 pm

just a little story
I was in the sixth grade
precocious and chomping at the bit

I was elected president of my class
along with this office came a responsibility
I had to take names when the teacher was out.

My earliest political realization came from this
it's a no win situation, being a cop.
I'll never take that job again.
"These words don't make me a poet, these Eyes make me a poet."

The Poet's Eye

hester_prynne

Post by hester_prynne » December 10th, 2004, 10:19 pm

I'll cop to
not wantin
to be a cop,
lookin fer da bad
in everything,
no good
anywhere to be found,
pulled me over once;
"hey lady,
your back light's out",
"uh yes I know sir,
got a replacement
right here on the dash,
see?"
"see your license,
and insurance ma'am?"
"Uh, well, okay, but why?"
"It's the law ma'am"
"why you imitatin a cowboy, sir?"
"what'd you say ma'am?
"okay, here's the stuff you want"
"wait here ma'am"
slump, swear, pray.
footsteps, footsteps, footsteps.
"ma'am, it appears
your vehicle in sure ance
is expired"
"oh no! they cancelled me?
I told them I could pay it
tommorrow...."
"ma'am, i'm gonna ask you
to park your car over in that
parking lot. I won't tow you this time.
but you can't drive until
your in sure ance is valid"
"but officer, can't i just get
the car home.....please? I'm tryin
to find a job..."
"no ma'am, you're lucky
i didn't tow your car...i'm givin
you a break..."
"sniff, sniff, shit. can i get a
ride home?"
"no ma'am. Here's your ticket,
500 dollar fine is the best
I can do ma'am"
"gee, I'm lucky"
"what's that ma'am?"
"nuthin".

cops.
ain't no glory in it.

perezoso

Post by perezoso » December 10th, 2004, 10:55 pm

No one digs cops until they have been jacked
by hoods or thieves; hipsters say they hate to be
a crimefighter but they will act like a nazi if giving any degree of
control: give a flower child a button and he'd
electrocute a schoolteacher: give a bongo player a
badge and he'd, probably. arrest squares on the street.
everyones a nazi these days even 'you

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Lightning Rod
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Post by Lightning Rod » December 10th, 2004, 11:03 pm

my next realization came from the bible
when I turn the other cheek, you know which cheek it is.

I moon the powers that be
they can cancel my insurance
but they have to catch me first.

the only cop-work I do from now on
is summary execution.

I hate that button that says, "Submit."
"These words don't make me a poet, these Eyes make me a poet."

The Poet's Eye

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Lightning Rod
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Post by Lightning Rod » December 10th, 2004, 11:15 pm

only if we fight
in black and white

like the real cowboys
"These words don't make me a poet, these Eyes make me a poet."

The Poet's Eye

perezoso

Post by perezoso » December 10th, 2004, 11:23 pm

Naw, the black hats n the white hats is a ho-wood joke:
its all Black hats, though they might be wearing white--
the sheriffs at the brothel too, indeed he
was probably first in line;
well after the judge--
but judge is more likely at the Chinee
room with the 8 yr olds just arrived at
Gold Mountain----
My hat would be bearskin,
rather than stetson:
though those Pinkerton Derbys were sort of cool

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Lightning Rod
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Post by Lightning Rod » December 10th, 2004, 11:39 pm

I don't go nowhere without my chapeau

http://doreenperi.com/video/chapeau3.mov
"These words don't make me a poet, these Eyes make me a poet."

The Poet's Eye

perezoso

Post by perezoso » December 10th, 2004, 11:45 pm

Bogie in a Fedora
with Bacall by his side:


a porkpie is cool
but better a Fez

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judih
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Post by judih » December 10th, 2004, 11:48 pm

hats off
bareheaded bravo
what was x-pected
arrived
a package of words
untied, unfettered
confessed and adorned

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Doreen Peri
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Post by Doreen Peri » December 11th, 2004, 12:01 am

The old man donned a stetson,
turned up at the sides like his
mustache corners, pulled stench
weed out of a corncob pipe.

His past was blasted through holes
in ripped dungarees. His socks
were stiff and ripe.

The only thing the old man cared about
was honor and truth, he said. He never lied
about his wife or fibbed about his youth,
but claimed a clean slate, instead.

He was a boring old man in a tall
straw hat. None of his stories were
fabricated. Just think of that.

We called him Cowbody Dan.
He lived in Laredo near the mill,
slept in his van, probably sleeps
there still.

I never met a man
who never told a lie,
except for Dan –
no matter hard he tried
to improvise and scat,
we always knew that
there was something
he wasn't telling
stuck up in that hat.

perezoso

Post by perezoso » December 11th, 2004, 12:07 am

Cowbody Dans are everywhere,
like suburban whores:
and some of them might be
unknown Miltons
but they just never
stooped
to blow

real poets usually
sleep in vans
or the street
or mug people

and there is something alright about
those who will not scat, or rap or
mewl
Last edited by perezoso on December 11th, 2004, 12:09 am, edited 1 time in total.

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judih
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Post by judih » December 11th, 2004, 12:08 am

gov't stamp of approval
you! homeless, foodless in rags
you! poet

next....

perezoso

Post by perezoso » December 11th, 2004, 12:12 am

im not beat romantic enough to claim that:
but there are einsteins in the streets of LA
rimbauds of park benches
bukowskis that no one knew
van goghs that died alone
in madhouses, scribbling
on table tops

tragedy is the first truth

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