misipitrik

Hi Richard,

We wouldn't be able to take orders for less than 6 shirts, but if you wanted to allow others to place orders of 6 or more just tell them to give us a call to place the order.

When they call, tell them to reference your order number 500276 and that they would like to reorder that design (and that they have permission from you to do so).

Or, you can take your own orders and then place a reorder yourself for the shirts.

Please let me know what else I can do to help. Thanks,

-Ben


Ben Knezic
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GOD IS A GIRL..

GOD IS A GIRL

 

  God wears minis and Mabelline

 

 High heel sneakers and belly rings

 

 See through blouses and strings of pearls

 

 God ain’t no illusion no, God is a girl

 

 She's a bad French kisser of the finest kind

 

 A cocktail waitress serving dry white wine

 

 God's a go-go chic and an exotic dancer

 

 A willing and eager back seat romancer

 

 Yes God is the reason for this sexy world

 

 And we get it honest cause God is a girl

 

 No God ain't no frightful desert killer

 

 God is a midnight bedroom thriller

 

 God ain't no walking talking bomb

 

 God is a Cowgirl, God is a Mom

 

 She's a giggling, flirting, scheming, hurting

 

 Lying, conniving, most wonderful bitch

 

 With one wheel on the freeway and one in the ditch

 

 And we can all watch as her banner unfurls

 

 We don't want to miss nothing cause God is a girl

 

 She's a beautiful, fanciful, curious girl.

 

Amen

  

"I'm a poet, I know it, hope I don't blow it." (Elston Gunnn).............."ditto"  (misipitrik)

There is an artist in New York City who makes a good living creating his work on canvases made out of Buffalo dung. I assume he uses only male buffalo dung. Actually I'm an old buffalo dung man from way back. The musical pieces here are not songs, they are aimed at the head not at the hips. They are more like lithographs. I call them audiographs. I stand back about eight feet from one of my pen and ink sketches and hurl musical watercolors,Jackson Pollack style or sometimes 'Conan the Barbarian' style, works for me.

 

 

 

"The Year of the Vulture", "Stand Up Man"(The Vertical Diet) and "The Jirmenko Highway"(my guitar style for those, like me, who did not inherit the musicians gene but wish to play acoustic guitar) at  http://zebox.com/misipitrik2

Bio: I am Richard Ward, until a guitar strap goes around my neck. Then I become 'misipitrik'. 1973 was the year my brothers Navy Jet crashed and I embarked on a journey even Odysseus would envy. Bobby's dream for me began when we were teenagers, he was convinced that that I should compose and write. I bought my first guitar a month after his death. Twenty three years later, I committed my first selfless act, I started taking care of mom. The gods were pleased, finally, and the dam gave way. Zebox has featured me six times. I have contracts for a song, instrumental, film and tv and an audio-book. I also have twelve pieces of poetry being published in four magazines and one academic review, 'The Trestle Creek Review, 'Down in the Dirt Magazine', Poets' Art, Red Hawk Review and Poets Matrix, and one short story in Northern Stars magazine at this point(all published in 2006).  I have also been published (Splendid Behavior) by Tot Holmes at LADugout and a newspaper, "Dodger Dugout".  I have a degree in English Lit and a Masters degree from (The Playing Fields of Eton)...really.

The painting(Biography) is "The Red Vinyard", the only one Vincent ever sold in his lifetime.  Anna Bock bought it. She was a "collector" taken seriously as well as an artist and this along with a glowing review on his work by another art critic of note told Vincent he could lay his burden down and trade in the bi-polar express for a starry starry night.

I do perform. I do it in the format of a DJ but it's anything but that, me and Andy Kauffman, we be mates. It is part Garrison Keilor, part Alistaire Cook and 100% 'misipitrik' plus Vageena, my guitar/lyre and, of course: Hogman Maxie, Guitar Welch, Amadaeus, Walter Becker,Donald Fagen,Warren Zevon,Steve Earle,Townes Van Zant,Vladimir Horowitz,Jim Croce,Jimmy Buffett,Nora Jones,Doc Watson,Diamond Rio,Bo Diddley,Robert Johnson,Indigo Girls,James Taylor,Rascal Flatts,John Prine,Muddy Waters,Randy Newman,Bob James,Earl Klugh,David Allen Coe,Hank Williams,Eric Clapton,Del McCoury,Mark Knophler,Richard Thompson,Bob Dylan,Bob Marley,Gorden Lightfoot,Merle Haggard,Miles Davis,Thelonious Monk,John Coltrane,Natalie Merchant,Jackson Browne,Sara McLacklan,Shawn Colvin,Dave Matthews,FleetwoodMac,Jimi Hendricks,Sheryl Crow,Bobby Johnson,Billie Holiday,Jimmy Durante,Lyle Lovett,Ricky Lee Jones,Delbert McClinton, R&J Cash one more,and.....'misipitrik'.



[[TheArchitect]] , Published in Poets Art and Poetic Matrix 2006........

You never see his lips move, he’s a master at his craft.



And an artist of illusion with no peer.



He’s melded mass confusion with illusion and the lie.



With the half-truth and that masterpiece, the smear.





Now the dummy is no dummy, he is clever and he’s vain.



He is ten feet tall and he is bullet proof.



He ran down his father’s limb, his father did that too.



And the dummy’s been a dummy since his youth.





The Architect is silent, just like a rifle crack.



He can start a war and he can turn back time.



He has all the answers to every single question



He’s got the plan and his hand in the dummy’s back.




One is a True Believer, with genetic self esteem

One is but a Reptile from our past

Alone each would be harmless, an oddity at best

But joined they are as Critical as Mass





The Architect’s a painter and he’s brushed us back in time.



To a canvas dated nineteen eighty four.



And it shows a thousand ears, a thousand one way mirrors.



And a thousand sets of cages for the poor.



The Architect is smiling; it’s one of Natures Laws.



The strong shall rule the weak and that’s a fact.



He knows what’s best for everyone because he is the man.



The man, the plan and his hand in the dummy’s back.





The Grinder turns the crank, the monkey does his dance.



The people laugh and cheer and throw their coins.



The monkey doesn’t mind his leash; it’s been there all his life.



The master’s always held it with his loins.





Yes he’s the man who’s got the plan for every single problem.



There is no answer that the Grinder lacks.



Because he’s the man with the master plan, the purest heart among us.



The man with the leash, and his hand in the dummy’s back.






The King’s Highway [Published in the Trestle Creek Review, Poet's Art and Poetic Matrix 2006]

She tucked her babes in, one and two

And said, what song can I sing for you



Shall I sing of knights and squires and such

Or a princess fair or the Midas touch,



What shall I sing for you two today

They said, sing us the song of the Kings Highway



She laughed and said, “Oh not again”

Don’t you get tired of it now and then



But her children one and two

Heard the tale each time as fresh and new



And they begged their mother and won the day

She began to sing of the King’s Highway



“Now the Kings Highway is a magic road,

Alive with such wondrous things

There are dragons there, and errant knights

Good things to eat and splendid sights

Horses fine and ladies fair

Castles suspended in the air

Silver, gold and pearls and such

English, Spaniards, Moors and Dutch

And all the delights will be yours, if when

You meet the King and you take his hand



But how will we know him the two babes spoke

By his crown of gold, by his royal robe?

He’ll reveal himself when you take his hand

On the King’s Highway, in that magic land





So Winken and Blinken came stealing then

On beams of the Milky Way

And set them down on the magic road

On the road called The King’s Highway



And the wonders, the sights, the scents and sounds

The Ladies, the Knights, their steeds and hounds

The music, the dance and the blooms of May

Cast a spell on the two on the Kings Highway



So much to do, so many to meet

Have you met this one, have you tried this treat

And their mother’s words seemed far away

Take the hand of the King, on the King’s Highway



So they set out on the magic road

Joined in the dance and fun

With their only thoughts of merriment

Yes they were the lucky ones



They danced and sang and ate and danced

When a beggar caught their eye

An old, half blind and crippled man

And they almost passed him by



But their mother’s heart was in their hearts

So each took the beggars hand

And guided him down the magic road

Into the magic land



Suddenly a cloud of flame lit up the King’s Highway

The ground shook and thunder roared

And standing in their way

A King stands where the beggar stood

With a crown of purest gold

And he turned and spoke to them

In a voice both strong and bold





He said, you were not on trial young ones

Though you did your very best

You did not fail or conquer

But your mother passed the test  





“Most men live their lives in Quiet Desperation”. Thoreau.. The Battle for Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton”.. Wellington “Until the girls picked the lock on the gate to the Playing Fields of Eton the only ones who were fun to talk to were hookers, that was why we lived our lives in quiet desperation”.. Misipitrik............. [Toba/Turning Point]........ I watched the girls of summer, round eye, slant eye, red star, star spangled with 100,000 screamers looking on and untold millions mesmerized and I knew it was more than a game. I could see the drawbridge guarding the playing fields of Eton slowly lower, almost level. Then a little blue-eyed Wikking chic walked up to the first tee and teed off, the only golfer in the Penis Golf Association tournament without one, under more scrutiny and pressure than any athlete in the history of history, even more than Jessie or Jackie and she wasn’t surrounded by her teammates. When the day was over she was right smack dab in the middle and the Playing Field was seated, the lock was broken/shattered, the secret, a secret no longer. Not long after I watched the gelded girl, sexually mutilated/lobotomized as a child for control, born into slavery for centuries, knowing she could be killed that day or later as a statement killing, holding her stained finger in the air defiantly and I knew that like the exodus from Olduvai and the Toba Caldera bottleneck…………things had reached another Turning Point…….thank you Jesus, it’s just in the nick of time. Footnote: I wonder what would have happened if that chic who greased the space shuttle to a perfect landing would have broken a nail just prior to touchdown……..it's like cow lips in a hot dog, think about it.

 

                                                       The House of Dreams

  

When I was a child my mother,

 Took me to the house of dreams

 

It was I and my mother and my little brother,

 And she had this scheme it seems

 

She would poison us with beauty

 Like her mother had done to her

 

And for the rest of our lives

 Through sugar plum eyes

The house and the world would blur

  

So we passed through the door from the outside world into this magic land

 

Where me and Huck and a dog named Buck met a kid named Peter Pan

 

And a maid named Joan joined up with us and a rogue named Robin Hood

 

And three swordsmen who were ‘all for one’ and ‘one for all they stood

 

And a Captain so courageous and a Long John pirate’s foe

 

And, I stood on the wall of ancient Troy, while Paris strung his bow

 

And yes I sailed on Jason’s ship

 

And I sailed with the Vikings too

 

And I was the Astrogater on a sea of morning dew

 

I commanded the first starship that trekked into the void

 

And I rescued Princess Leah and her robot and her droid

 

Yes I am a cosmic sailor on the ether of the mind

 

The relative time rider as the relative time unwinds

  

Now I am a boy no longer

 

But I still have my merry band

 

Grown into an army of my friends

 

They are ‘all for one, we stand

 

With one foot firm in the now time

 

And one in the never land

  

When I was a child my mother,

 Took me to the house of dreams

 

It was I and my mother and my little brother,

 And she had this scheme it seems

 

She would poison us with beauty

 Like her mother had done to her

 

And for the rest of our lives

 Through sugar plum eyes

The house and the world would blur

Zebox has featured me five times and 1,000,000 people have been exposed to 'misipitrik'....this is the Zebox review: [Dick Ward is a true American original. His music and lyrics speak to the heart and to the mind. One thinks of Dylan (so eloquently eulogized in 'The Ballad of Elston Gunnn.' But Ward's music is no faux Dylan. He speaks with his own voice, with simplicity and total sincerity (perhaps much more than E. Gunnn himself!) Like all true poets, his songs tell the stories of our lives and the people who populate them. I rank him with the great singer-songwriters, with Kristofferson, L Cohen, Woody Guthrie].......



.........[[The Gelded Girl]]............



.....She walked out that day, dressed appropriately in black, sexually mutilated as a child, demeaned and dehumanized for centuries, for so long it had become a custom, like slavery. She knew she might be killed then or later, as a statement, her life was cheap in that land. She walked out that day to vote for rule of law rather than the whim of man, and to put an end to the ancient chorus: 'Every man a King'. 


I asked the Dean of the School of Medicine at a large prestigious southern Medical School at a cocktail party once if the ritualistic practice called 'female circumcision' was actually that, we had all had a snoot full at the time.  He said sure, it's like I was going to circumcise you and I was as blistered as I am now and my hand slipped and cut your entire dick off.  I heard that.  It makes you wonder how it started in the first place.  I bet whoever the guy was he didn't walk like a sailor, smile readily and talk softly....you think?


.... [[THE FLAMENCO PRISONER]].........'Picasso painted a Flamenco prisoner, a burned out shell clutching his guitar, that damn gypsy music is a jealous creature, you'll need an exorcism if you go to far.' This line is from a song I wrote called 'Natural Rainman'. They refer to a remarkable musician with an equally remarkable affliction whom I met when I lived in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. I can't remember his name. I only met him once, once was enough. He had been the classical guitar teacher at the University and he also had a great part time job playing at the classiest restaurant in the village. He had a pretty wife, a couple of great kids, a house, life was good. When I met him he lived in a small trailer with no electricity. He cooked Johnny cakes on a wood stove and washed them down with spring water. No, not from a bottle, but from a small spring about a couple of hundred yards behind the trailer. He also used the water to bathe and wash his clothes in. His $9,000 Ramirez classical guitar had been history for four years and he had not replaced it. He told me he did yard work to make a living. Now if you were telling me this story I would assume he was a juicer, or had a drug problem. He didn't drink or smoke anything or taken anything stronger than aspirin in his life. What he was was a Flamenco prisoner.....This guy would go to work at 8:00 AM, play for his students all day(when they should have been playing for him), come home at 5:30 PM eat a quick dinner then start playing at the restaurant at 7:00. He would play until 11:00, come home, go to his studio and play until 4:00 AM. Remember the dancers favorite movie,'The Red Shoes'. When the dancer put on the bewitched and wicked Red Shoes she danced more beautifully than she had ever danced before but she couldn't take them off and as long as they were on she couldn't stop dancing. This guy couldn't stop playing. I invited him over to my house for dinner. Two other musicians he knew were going to be there so he accepted. It was about 10:00 PM, I had outdone myself with the spaghetti, and we were sitting around the living room drinking wine spo diodie when he reached for my classical Guild guitar, and said,'may I'. Tuning the guitar was a performance by itself, perfect pitch, of course. He fanned a chord, the classical folks have a name for that. As the last strains of the chord softly faded the first rays of dawn peaked through the skylight. The three listeners had not moved throughout the night, we were in real pain. I can't speak for the other two, they were serious musicians, but I had been downloaded. The prisoner had filled up a horse syringe with Flamenco poison and shot it straight into my heart......I never saw him again but I hear him sometimes. I think that's the way an artist of strings finds immortality. I suspect he is in Chapel Hill somewhere, doing what he can to survive, with the rest of the way too beautiful, and the broken hearted. In Chapel Hill, they are legion.........



My music(not actually songs, because I'm not a musician) is a blend of country rock, with a drop of blues and a large dollop of Flamenco poison, the licks that resulted have been described by one jazz artist as sentient. The pieces of the collection that are included here (for taste) have not seen the editor yet so be gentle, and my musical paintbrush is a thorn bird named Varinia Margarite Guilda.......and she has a nickname, 'Vageena'.....Everything I do is live. I saw Jazz musicians construct a jazz piece once and I laughed my ass off all the way home.  It had more in common with the masonry business than music, or a film as opposed to the stage.  It was like 'nip and tuck' in B flat.  In a word, it was airbrushed perfection.

 

The inspiration for SPLENDID BEHAVIOR came from two sources: 1) Josh Deets, "Here lies Josh Deets, served with me for thirty years, fought with me in 23 engagements with the Commanche and the Kiowa, cheerful in all weathers, never shirked a task, splendid behavior...Woodrow F Call, Texas Rangers-Retired. Also Bobby Bonds, Sammy Sosa, Mark McGuire, Jason Giambi, Rafael Palmeiro and Jose Canseco. We owe an unpayable debt to these professional baseball players for they have taken the most hurtful of all racial slurs and turned it into a genre. Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty we are all free at last. And to Ted Williams, Joe Dimaggio, Larry Doby,Hank Aaron, Babe Ruth, Mickey Mantle, Roy Campenella, Satchel Paige, Roberto Clemente, Pee Wee Reece, a player to be named later and..........Jackie Robinson. Thanks, forever.



[SPLENDID BEHAVIOR]Published by Poet's Art and Poetic Matrix...... 'I have found the the player you wanted. he moves like a dancer and runs like a deer.'....................



He's smart, he's cool and he once was a warrior, and he is no stranger to danger and fear,'....



'Is he quick to anger, can he hold his temper, can he walk away from a taunt or a fight.......



'Well, he doesn't back off and he doesn't back down, but he might walk away if he thought it was right..............



'I would meet this young man, please try to arrange it, and send in the Captain before you go, he must agree to pick up this gauntlet, for where it will lead, not one of us knows.........



The Black Knight walked in like a prince or a minstrel, it was hard to tell, he was in disguise, the Captain stood up, walked over to greet him, gripped his hand firmly, and fixed his blue eyes......................



'I've seen you in action, I have not seen better, in your kingdom or mine, I swear it is true, and if you take this quest, I will stand with you, with the bitter and sweet, until it is through...............................



So two 'knights errant', one black and one white, and the good king, on horseback, set out for the fight, and yes they all fell, all died one by one...............................



But they did not fall, till they finished this song.


BOWHUNTER [Published in the 'Red Hawk Review'2006]    

  He moves in the forest, looking for tracks, reading the signs of the deer.  Well, not quite, that’s a part of his Crazy Horse dream,  cause he’s in his tree stand drinking beer. He has a high tech killing device,  that comes with a serious accurate sight, and enough corn to feed the children of Chad, and a Rambo sized skinning knife.  He sits in his stand with his Playboy and Grisham,  with his battery powered TV,  and he thanks the god’s that he’s an outdoorsman,  like he always wanted to be.  There’s a deer at the edge of the clearing , it has followed the corn to the tree But Grisham has cast a net on the hunter,  for the moment he just doesn’t see.  But the Fates are now with the hunter,  he looks down and picks up the bow, and he carefully nocks the arrow in place,  and he aims where he wants it to go.  The Bowmaster is a field dresser,  he will go this far and no more.  He just wants the loin and the head for his den.  It’s cut up by a small country store.   The next day the Bowmaster stops at a house.   It’s old and it leaks but it’s home.   Home to a mother and five hungry children.  She’s rearing them well, all alone.  He brings her the venison, ninety-three pounds,  she can’t help it she just has to cry.  And the fast coming winter just turned into Christmas,  in the wink of a Bowmaster’s eye.  Yeah he moves in the forest, looking for tracks,  reading the signs of the deer The child of Cochise or the Deer slayer

                                    With his Playboy, Grisham and beer

    ........ The Court of Chauncy Allcotte is a short story that I could have named [Take dead aim with a Sharpe's .50]



[[THE COURT OF CHAUNCY ALLCOTTE]]: The courtroom of Chauncy Allcotte had been, very unconventional, from the beginning. If he had had a middle name it would have been innovative or deranged, depending on your point of view. As it was, he had become the most well known judge in the state of Texas after only six years on the bench, and his most famous exploit was that he was still there.



Bobby Ray Jones was also fairly famous in his own right. His rap sheet could have stretched from judge Allcotte's desk to the fire hydrant in front of the courthouse. Bobby's latest achievement in life was armed robbery and rape. He had not yet celebrated his 23rd birthday. He knew his ass was grass and the crazy judge was his personal lawnmower. The jury had taken all of 20 minutes to find a verdict of guilty as sin. Now it was Chauncy's turn.



Bobby Ray you have accomplished a great deal in your short life. I see your mother out there, my information tells me that she is a fine woman who has tried to rear three children on less than modest means. I know that you sure have been a comfort to her, I can tell by her tears. Well Bobby Ray, I am sure that I have diagnosed your problem correctly, you sir are a nigger. Yep, blue gum, loose shoe, night latch...I could go on for that is exactly what you are. Five minutes later, with Bobby Ray bound and gagged, Chauncy resumed. It was easy for me to draw that conclusion after I met your wonderful mother and your brother and sister for they are certainly Black and all of the noble and decent qualities infered by that word. It was twice as easy for me to make that diagnosis because, in my youth, I was a Texas redneck and like you a stupid racist and meaner than hell. Well we are all born stupid niggerboy Jones even though some of us choose to stay that way. I have found that it is not in my power to legally change your name from Robert Raymond Jones to Seriously Stupid Niggerboy Jones, and that chagrins me, but what the hell. I can, however, because of your more than lengthy record, declare you a habitual criminal, and you know what that means Bobby Ray,bye bye.



Now just for fun, I'm going to add a little stinger here. Just because, in my youth, someone opened the door a crack for me, or as Margarite Johnson once said, threw me a lifeline. You are not acquainted with the great lady are you Bobby Ray? So here's the deal Sambo, this has nothing to do with you, I'm just going to settle an old debt.



You are going up the river for life plus about 9000 years without a smell of parole, however, and this is one serious however, if you achieve a Masters degree in English Literature from Yale University's (do it at home program)you will be pardoned and released, the day of graduation. I have this in writing from the governor. The only rider in this is that you will pay 15% of your income for life to the young woman you so cruelly raped. If you do not achieve this you will rot in prison for the rest of, what has been up to now, your worthless life. They say I'm innovative Bobby Ray, what say you. Ballif take the gag out of Bobby Rays mouth.



Six years after the sentencing of Bobby Ray Jones, Judge Chauncy Allcotte walked into the large and luxurious office of one of his closest friends and poker buddies, the Governor of the state of Texas. He was Jalapeno hot and the Governor was instantly alerted. No it's not you Bo, I've been trying to kick myself all the way over here. Unless I can prevail upon you to get my worthless Texas butt out of this mess, I might as well resign and move to Iran or Iraq, some place safer. The Governor waited, he knew Chauncy would get around to it.



Since the success we had with Bobby Ray, there have been , no less than six judges in the last three months to hand out similar sentences to criminal types including one to a prolific sex offender. The key word here is similar, let me address that first, I'll speak about the sex offender later if I can keep my gorge down.



I did not sentence Bobby Ray to recieve a college education, I sentenced him to an exorcism. These nitwit judges, in their innocent madness, are going to set more demons loose than that dickhead in Ghostbusters, Governor, your trade and mine is law, it's a trade, pure and simple, like sheet metal work,brain surgery or prostitution, you know that. We have two poker buddies we both love, Dr Terry Johnson, she is a renowned surgeon but dummer than dirt, nice ass though. Then there is Charlie Parker, entrepreneur and multi millionaire business genius racist. Trades can bring you money and plastic self esteem, but seldom can they give you wisdom, only useless and pointless knowledge or so says that Dylan person. They can't perform an exorcism and they can't educate you, only arm you.



These judges are giving apptitude tests and choosing ciriculums to prepare misguided,deranged, sometimes poisoned people for life after prison, rehabilitation, if you will. They might as well be signing up young Mengeles' or Hannibal Lectors' for pre-med.



There is one formula only. I've done a blind, leading the blind, double blind study on this and I can guarantee it. English or World Literature has to be taken through the masters level and World History for the minor. That's it, the keys to the kingdom, the rite of exorcism in a secondary society. Would you like to know who the real ghosterbusters are. The Governor had not moved since his old college roommate had started talking, it wasn't the first time. I take that for a yes. Mark Twain, Walt Whitman, Sir Winston Churchill, Socrates, Kaleel Gibran, Lord Wellington, Margret Mead, Maya Angelo though I prefer Margurite to Maya and a brigade of others. Once this curriculum is achieved they can study art appreciation or actylene welding, who cares. Governor, Bobby Ray lived his younger life in violence because he kept his own council, lived alone inside his head plus he was completely unsophistocated and, in fact, stupid. Now all those extraordinarily intellegent, wonderful people are permanant residents with non-cancellable leases on condos in his mind. They are marvelous company and perfect friends, ain't bad influences either. Now I ask you, what kind of advice can you get from a procedure to remove a gall bladder?



Governor I implore you to take my position on this and set the standard for English Literature and World History as the only curriculum for this program, for it has become a program, as I outlined it.



Now where the sex offender and the judge who included him in the program are concerned, I suggest you find yourself a Sharpe's 50 and shoot both of them.



Chauncy had forgotten that the Governor taped all conversations in his office. The following week copies of the tape went to every judge in Texas, and the Governor made Chauncy's Education Exorcism bill of fare mandatory to earn a pardon, all other programs were dropped. The sex offender was not dropped from the program but the judge was, for the time being anyway. The sex offender was informed that his chances for a pardon in his current anatomical state were slim at best. He began classes anyway, seems he had the time. Dr Terry Johnson was not offended by Chauncy's remark. She knew well what a tradesman was and any way everybodys got to be dumb at something. Chauncy's remark about her still tight 54 year old ass made her smile.



Twelve years later, on one morning in May, Dr Robert Ray Jones, his mother, brother and sister, his wife and three children and Beaula Johnson, who just happened to be buying candy in that convenience store a lifetime ago, laid a beautiful, colorful wreath on the grave of Chauncy Allcotte. Who was in so many ways Robert's Texas Dandy Dad. On the wreath was a card. It said, Thanks for the lifeline you beautiful bastard, I'll pass it on. ................................................................................................



SPARTACUS........VARINIA........SPARTACUS.....



Well, we have come to the end of our yellow byte road, or, at least to the inevitable fork. I will take the road less traveled, I have no choice, it is 'my way', 'my religion'. You and Toto, and the three sweet stooges, what road will you take, whichever, take Spartacus Varinia along with you. Dorothy, it would look lovely on that beautiful left breast for all the world to see along with that meaningful lizard/butterfly you had tattood on the right, and Tin Man you and the other two, who cares, just make it obvious eye candy for the ladies. Dorothy will have the gents well in hand/breast.......................



The Roman general looked out over the thousands of betrayed and now defeated gladiators who had cast a spear and terrible fear into the very heart of the Roman empire. If you will give us the slave 'Spartacus', who led you in to this folly, we will spare your lives, you will not be crucified. Stand up Spartacus, would you send these courageous men to the most terrible of all deaths so that you might have a few more moments of life. Spartacus heard and he agreed. He began to stand up when one of the gladiators leaped to his feet, I am Spartacus, it is I, kill me. Another, then another, No, I am Spartacus, it is I. In only a few moments, they were all screaming, 'I am Spartacus, kill me. The Roman general's head was down and his mouth barely moved as he gave the order. I thought as much, by the way they fought, crucify them all on the road back to Rome...............



I have no advice for the design of the SPARTACUS VARINIA tattoo except that it is a gladiator's helmet and it has more meaning than all the lizard/snake/butterfly/mexican cutie/hawgmobile/rose/tulip cartoons that adorn us collectively........ SPARTACUS stands for ENERGY RESOURCING, that's right E R, and that's where the whole damn planet is, in the Emergency Room, on life support, barely hanging on. The elimination of fossile fuels from the planets surface forever. Soon, real soon, on our first trip to Mars where a female astronaught with bodacious ta ta's trips over a,'Trust your car to the man who wears the star sign', and Groundhog Day will suddenly take on terrifying significance, (we are talkin billions of years here), that fork in the road that has certainly come before will loom again. One road to the stars, one back to the cooking pot, if we are lucky. If we do not bring an end to this 10,000 foot high Fossile Fuel Tsunamis wave caused by a meteor the size of Great Britain that struck at the beginning of the 20th century then that well shaped, well preserved, baby boomer grandma who is still seriously sexually active will know the pure joy of holding her grand-child in her arms for the first time but the odds are the grand-child will never have that moment.. Wait, there is one more thing.......Margret Mead said that if we did not go to small organic family farms to feed ourselves we would not survive, she meant as a species, not as a culture. [The food chain is poisoned, chemo-therapy is being marketed on TV and everyone drinks bottled water..duh.] Does the elimination of fossil fuels and alcohol produced by both agribusiness and our small farmers(the perfect cash crop they need)distributed by Texaco sound like menage to you? WE ARE LOSING OUR ATMOSPHERE, even bacteria cannot survive that.



One question...how is Osama going to meet expenses without oil money??, and how many other problems that afflict us will fade, like cancer,arthritis, autisim. Who the hell knows, we live on a poisoned planet.................................When I was in high school, I saw this science teacher on TV set up 200 mouse traps on a table and load each one with 2 ping pong balls (he was giving an example of a nuclear reaction), then he stepped back and tossed one ball on to the table. One trap sprung, two ping pong balls rose up, then fell gently on the table, then four more, then crescendo, all hell broke loose. We,(sentient life forms), need something to bind us together, a mutual focus, a rallying point, can you think of a better one? No, I already thought of that and took a survey. Too hard to tattoo and the girls just won't go for it. So, will one bright chic seeing the VARINIA tattoo on another womans breast make her wonder what it is, what it stands for: does a cat spit up hair balls, does a bear shit in the woods, are feline creatures naturally curious? Go girl!,make VARINIA GROW AND PROSPER like a son of a bitch, you passed the finish line long ago, why not just keep on running......All misipitrik's tracks recorded live. (No Corrections or over-recording, except for other artists) at Osceola Recording in Raleigh, N.C. Tom Mohbat..Engineer~





This is the 13th song I recorded...you will have to supply the music........[[THE FIRE IN THE MIRROR.]] Published by Poet's Art 2006...........................



I saw her face when I passed by the mirror...



She had that same look or it could be a glow...



Maybe it's something deep in the lady...



I think I touched her, I just don't know...



Turning to ask, our eyes met so gently...



She seemed lost in a place far away...



I had to ask though it changes the answer...



But I have to know, do I touch you that way...



Do I satisfy you, do I satisfy you...



I always know when I am in danger...



I hide the signs but they give me away...



To breathe in is easy, to breathe out's a problem.



I know I'm in trouble when I hear me say...



Do I satisfy you, do I satisfy you...



I shouldn't ask and you shouldn't answer...



The question, the answer, could tear us apart...



The heat of the moment is in control now...



The mind could never compete with the heart...



She looked at me and thought for a moment...



She gave me a smile, I think that it was...



You never know with a sensual woman...




You ask her why and she'll say, just because...



She said, I know you're on fire, I can feel that inside me...



I know that you love me, you know I love you...



I'll answer you love if you'll answer this for me...



Except for the fire, do I satisfy you...



I saw her face when I passed by the mirror...



She had that same look, it might be a glow...



Maybe it's something deep in the lady...



Maybe I touched her, I just don't know, so......



... I just let it go.............



[[THE BOATMAN OF BUBBAVILLE]].......



Somewhere in my thirties, I discovered my true calling, my cosmic profession, what I was born to be, a ferryman of hearts. A boatman of broken dreams, a bridge over troubled water, don't stop me now, I'm on a roll. Well you get the picture, I'm sure. My favorite song is Handyman, JT's version. I have played that role more than thirty times and each scenario is a clone of the last one. I meet some heartsick chic with wrecked dreams and I make her laugh for the first time in months. She gets a mood elevator shot in the ass and responds with wild abandon in the get naked department. Over a few months she gets her groove back and then one day she turns and does to me what she wanted to do to the bastard who caused her such sorrow in the first place. She gives me a Viking funeral. She sticks a knife in my heart, from the rear, of course. Then she dumps my dead body on a longship with my favorite dog at my feet(that she just throttled), sets the whole damn thing on fire and pushes my ass out to sea. Yes, this has happened to me more than 30 times. You are thinking, then I must like this, like a masochist likes hot tallow. I will answer that truthfully................hell yeah.........



See, each time I do it, life goes into ..intense mode..Too hot not to burn up..............The last time I did the Boatman thing was very special for she was 28 years younger than me and truly adorable. I got enough self esteem out of this to last me till I'm 180. She had walked on her husband on her birthday, the day before she met me. Three months later I was floating on that burning boat, breathing my last, with a dead puppy at my feet, but it was worth it, jesus god it was. Like the ones that went before her she was remarried and pregnant within a year......I think I'm a friggin fertility god..........I checked with the Guinness Book of World records to see if we had broken any Douglass-Jones,Mutt-Shania records for a secondary society. but the ones we did break were regional and then with qualifers, like I wasn't rich, things like that....We did break the Bogie/McCall record but thats been done a lot. I noticed that a 70 year old Segovia knocked up, then married a tasty 26 year old student of his but they were Spanish..nuff said. The world record was a 96 year old dude from Nepal who had four more serviceable teeth than his 15 year old bride. That was deemed primary, don't count here. I saved the best for last, Balanchine and Farrell. George, the master choreographer was 69 and Susan, the baby ballerina was 16. George should have got six years in the big house for this, but Susan kept mum. George and Susan, fifty three years apart..wow. At least Penelope and I have the record for Bubbaville, where I reside. I'm sure I could have kept things going with her a while longer but she caught strep, was away from me for two weeks, I couldn't whisper in her ear, the fog lifted, ah well............So, if you are a seasoned stud, who is unconnected and semi-interesting, see if you can qualify for a Boatman's License. The work is steady and rewarding. The first couple of Viking funerals are a pain, but they get easier with time. You will not believe some of the tips you will get or the serious friends you will make either. ...



[[A HEAVY DUTY WOMAN]]..........[She had eyes of silver, eyes of blue, eyes of ice and fire too, eyes of passion, pulse and power, eyes like arrows, eyes like flowers. She had politicians eyes, full of warmth, full of lies,and yes she had a warriors too, these eyes of ice and eyes of blue. She strutted, fretted every part, she played the Queen, she played the tart, until she found the perfect role, she played herself,she played her heart.....If you took all the loves of my life, and we are into double figures here, and I mean loves, serious, I would like to knock yo ass up and live with you forever women. No, not the collisions that used to be my self esteem marker, but now are kind of embarrasing, I will admit to winning the, human dildo award sixteen years running. If you separate them into two columms with bios. One column would take 250 to 300 pages. The other column would say, Judy Meredith, what can I say. .......I didn't really meet Judy, she actually assaulted me with her eyes. I have this theory that women can shoot addictive love viruses out of their eyes for considerable distances. Anyway, when Judy did it to me we were nine years old. I haven't seen her for eighteen years, but if she walked in right now, chubby and greying, I would decompensate. ...........I'll skip all the unrequited crap from high school, it was as horrible as you can imagine. You probably went through something similar. Don't feel bad for me though cause when we were thirty two I met her again and this time I nailed her and I mean if I had thrown her against the wall after each and every encounter she would have stuck. Nothing could be more passionate, more sensual, more erotic than to be assaulted by the blinding love of a nine year old in a mans body. Almost every sword has two edges. I can still see all 5' 1 of her, standing there with her finger pointing at my zipper and those ice blue Siberian Husky eyes that never blinked locked into mine, 'my relationship is with him, you arrogant bastard, you are an ogre', you don't know what it's like to be a woman.....I could feel it coming from the bottom of my feet, gaining speed, I tried to stifle it but failed. I projectiled, 'No shit'. Judy, like all petite women, strutted (not walked) out the door, but she came back in 5 seconds because she was naked. If that ain't love it has never existed.....Sorry for that, it's the ladies story, not mine...........................Judy Meredith wasn't a pretty girl, certainly not a stone fox or drop dead gorgeous. She was simply STUNNING. Just looking at her would make your eyes tear up. For the first 22 years of her life she used her beauty like a weapon. In fact, in the beauty arena she was the equivalent of a French .75 Howitzer. She loved college and would have stayed there for 25 years, but graduation day finally arrived to find her completely unprepared. Suddenly she found herself confronted with words like job, work, rent, paycheck. Judy didn't panic, she did something about it. She asked her friends who was the richest guy on campus who looked halfway decent. They told her , she married him. This was a no brainer for Judy, he never knew what hit him, hell he thought it was his idea. But something had happened to Judy in college. Some tiny invisible keys had somehow eluded the barriers in place and were unlocking tiny doors, a chain reaction had begun called reasoning................After Judy had been married a year and attended 302 parties and gotten blistered 364 times, the chain reaction reached a critical point. One morning when her husband was still in bed, she walked over to the vanity where, at least a thousand dollars worth of cosmetics set. Judy put her arm out, as she passed, and sent it all crashing to the floor. This, of course, woke up her husband, big time. Judy said, I'm sorry, but I want a divorce, this whole thing is my fault, I engineered it all but I was wrong. I don't want any money from you, just a divorce, I'm so truly, truly sorry.........Judy showed up on the steps of her brothers commune in Seattle some time later. She stayed there for one year. She smoked a little dope, drank a little wine, until one day, near the end of her stay, her brother gave her a postage stamp with the words, 'lick me' written on the front. Judy had never done any acid, but she was in one of those, I'll do anything once, states of mind. When her ship came back into port a few days later, she knew exactly where she was headed, sometimes it works that way.........So the woman so beautiful and so crafty, that she married into a family worth $100,000,000.00, in the 60's no less, who kept moving like a broken field runner until she caught stride, who achieved a Masters in Industrial Psychology, assuring herself a life among the working poor as a Mental Health Counselor, changed herself from a genuine piece of ass into a Real Live Girl..................So Judy Meredith, you are awarded the Foxhound Flying University's Order of Merit........[There may be flies on other guys but there ain't no flies on Judy]...........Actually, this is our only degree so far, see I just founded the university. You know what, anyone can found a university, it's getting it accredited that's tricky. So far, we have only awarded one other [flies] degree, her name is Marguerite Johnson. She is an x-hooker and topless dancer. I think you would like her. She is quite the songbird. Oh yeah, why did I not marry this girl of my dreams or the other girls of my dreams,each a dream-girl, to me. Well, I have only one request of a woman for me to do the marriage thing. I want to know if she really, really, really, really loves me, so I asked all of them to sign Sati papers. So far their love has not proved true. Maybe I should try a glass slipper................



...........[[STEEPLECHASE]]....(This lady was one of the sweetest, most nurturing women I have ever known. She was beautiful, warm and had the personality of an 'Old English Sheepdog puppy. I remember her and the Flamenco Prisoner in the same thought.......I was down to the Steeplechase, got to be the worlds most beautiful race. I watched horse and rider thunder past the line. When they came back for the winners cup, her hair spilled out from beneath her cap. The rider was a lady and she looked so fine.........They made a picture standing there, his sable mane and her dark brown hair. She had ridden him hard so that she could win. She took the cup and she held it high, he stamped and blew for the camera's eye. Then she leaped back on him, wishing they could ride again...........I walked away inside my mind, lost in thought in another time, when another horse was matched in another race. Another rider spurred him on, the lady was bound to whip him home, her finish lust was painted on her face............She loved the horse when the race began, but lost her sense by the way he ran, and lost her reason too, she lost her way. She spurred him hard and she lashed her whip, she forgot her love for the love of it, and the stallion broke and fell that very day.......I was there and I saw it all, she could have saved him from his fall, but she was blinded by the power and the stride. She killed the horse she loved so well, for she rode so hard and when he fell, the stallion's heart was broken and he died.............I was down to the Steeplechase, got to be the worlds most beautiful race. I watched horse and rider thunder past the line. When they came back for the winners cup, her hair spilled out from beneath her cap, but the lady was a rider from another time. ..............



(Building a Portuguese Mystery)Published in Down in the Dirt Magazine 2006...I have this thing I can do with my mind when I'm driving long distances. Fifty thousand miles a year for twenty years as an outside salesman taught me how to turn a four hour drive into forty minutes, and not miss my exit, usually. I turned on the CD player as I turned on to the Interstate and Sarah McLacklin stuck her warm sweet tongue in my ear, again and again.....I fell in love with her before I even saw her. I fell in love with her heart. When I read her poetry, I did not sleep that night and spent most of the next day trying to compose something for her, but could not. Finally I wrote her a note asking her if she had possibly read my verses, and might I possibly have an audience. I so admired her work. A few days later she replied yes and yes. I might come on Thursday between 10:00 AM and 1:00 PM. I was at her door at 10:00. The maid led me to her bedroom, I had heard her health was delicate. Jet black hair contrasted with a much too fair complexion for the small frail lady. In my eyes, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I tried to keep things light and social but everything spilled over. I had hoped I could control myself but I heard me telling this person I knew so well and loved so deeply, whom I had met only an hour ago, my feelings for her. (Hush Robert, you cannot talk this way, you can see my condition, and I'm twelve years your senior, anyway we just met.) (You should go now, but if you promise to speak of this no more you may call again at the same time next Thursday). 

I entered the house on Wimpole street later, when I was sure she was ready, ready to say goodbye to the reason for her condition. I picked up her feather light body and carried her to Italy. Sunny Italy where she flourished and bore our child. How did I love her and how did she love me, I can't count the ways. Elizabeth died in my arms and the last word she said was (WONDERFUL)


My exit came up and I stepped down off the genetic e-train, back from the nineteenth century to the new millenium and the reality of the hand dealt. This time not Robert but Richard, not Elizabeth but Sarah. This time I'm the one older, a lot older and I've been too beat up by the gods, they have their reasons. I don't think this is a hand I can win. So I decided to do what any hairy legged boy would, faced with these circumstances. I'm going to buy a bass boat and a Natalie Merchant CD, she looks more like Elizabeth anyway.

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