the legend of Bobbie Jo


The bar room was noisy
When Bobbie Jo sat down,
Her stage was like a postage stamp
Her eyes creased in a frown.

Her T shirt was faded
Her jeans full of holes
But her face had a beauty
Neither young nor old.

She slung the strap of her guitar
Behind her slender neck,
Six silver strings to strum
Six Silken Strings to pluck.

The instrument was battered
In need of some repair
But the damage was cosmetic
The music *lived in there.

Her hands were not that beautiful
Red tipped, raw *****, and small
They looked almost masculine

The first chord was a *drawl.

Hooked up by a chord
To an electric amp,
She tuned her instrument a bit
And put on a clamp.

When she began strumming
Live music filled the place
The cowboys kept up with their noise
But a smile crept 'cross her face.

The chords crept into plucking
A Flamenco kind of riff
Spanish at its finest

The laughter seemed to drift...

Off into the distance
And the familiar chords
Of country western "Crazy"
Hit the ***** Tonkin' boards...

"I'm crazy for tryin'
And crazy for cryin'

I'm crazy for lovin' you..."

Her voice was melodious
But it was haunting, too
Much like Joni Mitchell
But with a country blue.

Then the chords got lively
In a folksy slang

"The Night They
Drove 'Ol Dixie Down..."

The walls of that place *rang!

Baez could do no better!
The music did its thing...
Boy! That girl could play that box!
Man! That girl could SING !!!

The place was deadly silent
When she sang a blue
And it was a stompin'
When the beat picked up its tune!

It got to be midnight
The middle of the night
She had taken not one break!
The music? OUTA SIGHT !!!

It got to be 2AM
She still kept up her strum!
And the cowpokes
were tired clappin'
By the time the night was done.

When it was finally over
She picked up her case
The owner came over
A strange look on his face.

He said to her, "Young lady,
You made a helluva night...
The best sales here ever
And there was not one fight!
I want you on here permanent
Could you do that, please?
I'll give you $500 bucks a night
And I'll help you release
A country music album
You've written your own stuff...
I'll help you release it.
It's way good enough...

She said, "That's okay my friend,
I made $500 there
They piled the money in all night
It's right inside my jar...
So I'd best be goin'
The Greyhound leaves at five...
I'm headed for Nashville
I think I will survive.
Just remember me some later on
When you hear my songs
You can say I played here
And the music was real strong."

He gave her a wry smile
And he said, "You bet..."
He would sure remember
How could he forget?

She had to turn some cowboys down
When they kinda came on strong
She had a big ol' bus to catch
So she left alone...

No one ever saw Bobbie Jo again
But later on they heard
Her bus had an accident.
Killed everyone aboard.

But her legend still lives on
Where her music rang
The cowpokes swear
her ghost still plays...

*everywhere she sang.

if stars were to freckle the day,
if streams were to dance in the deserts,
if dreams were to sink before sleep,
I would colour the moon pink..

March smart to the beat of the drums boys
March toward the sound of the guns
There's a battle yet to be fought boys
Before we can return to our homes
The dead now lie in rows boys
Cut down by the shot and the shell
But the enemy will turn and run boys
When they hear the rebel yell
Find the courage in your hearts boys
Although this day is lost
You fought and died so bravely boys
Was it really worth the cost?
So few of us are left boys
Sorely hurt, ravaged by pain
So many of us died boys
For what? For us there was no gain
Mothers, wives and sweethearts boys
In so many homes do grieve
They said we would be in for three months boys
Now so many will from here never leave

Rest In Peace boys

"Who am I, mother?
Who am I and what do I do?"

–Norman to his mother Norma, "Bates Motel"

And so it goes, a split self - the protagonist defending the darkness as
Bizarre murders satisfy obsessions of a mothers love, taking a
Chefs knife, stabbing victims to death.

Dualistic wars within, a helpless man whose mother taught him of the
"Evils of women," instilling her own moralities of their wickedness.

Fostering the antagonistic personality of his mother
Giving to his incomplete soul a sense of wholeness.

Hidden behind the boy next door innocence, a terrified man
Incarcerated; locked & bolted
Juddering with fear - promising to adhere - set free said to be "cured."

Kleptomania returns; unearthing bodies from their graves, stealing skulls; a comforting souvenir, as
Loving anyone meant destroying them also.

Multiple personalities dominate him
Norman Bates becomes Norma; his mothers persona, crawling into her skin
Originating from their very kiss, kick starting a timeless love affair

Paraphernalia of skins tanned, butchered conquests -keepsakes turned to art & now protecting an un
Quiet mind
Reasons pertaining to mental insanity
Sectioned to institutions

Taxidermy as a young boy fascinated his mind
Urges to **** & fill, feeding euphoric highs, & even
Vertigo.
Women thrilled him; their smell lingered on each garment he kept.

Xenos to himself; who, am I mother?
Youth denied, cried away
Zenith ended; his final resting place behind the bars of Mendona Mental Health Institution, 1984.

© Sia Jane

Within
A realm of fantasy
My mind it takes control
Painting pictures
Photographs
Prepared within the soul

Imagination
Plays its hand
Cautions cast the style
What I see
Is what I am
And will be for a while

Perception
Leads a blinded eye
To where the path begins
For the moment
I shall wait
Right here so deep within

I pulled at your edges
Soft, straight lines at first
Then thick, caterpillar fuzz spirals
Echoing into the vast expanse
Of your deep under ground
No map or metal
To shine within those dark caverns
But the deeper I traversed
I noticed a glow
Stumbling upon soul fire
Left out here in the wild
Explains your constant thirst for foreign soil under bare foot
Chasing oceans of sand
Just to drink the same vent-salted water
Our tongues entwined over powers with sweet
Feeding the high of a new sunset sky
This place inside, it is golden
True
It's holy and priceless
Completely you

I've been cursed and crossed
Beaten by the ones who got me off
I've been cut and opened up
Shattered by the ones I thought I loved
But I keep coming back to the crime scene
All the while knowing that the dead can't speak
And there's nothing left to say anyway
I've been left cold in the crypt
Cold as the words on your lips
And yet I recognize your face
What a strange redemption
Your words bled me dry
Now dust falls from my wounds
As downward I'm cast
Feelings of regret permeates me, left always wanting
From these wounds I am redeemed
And I recall with such vivid clarity
The soft whispers of foolish notions
Too late I've realized my wrongs and carelessness
But believe me my regret runs deep,
No longer inspired you are better off without me
My life's been molded
Deceived by the foolish
The weak embody lies and herein lies the truth
This long battle has left me with scars, beyond repair
And time can't heal these wounds inside

I inhale glass shards cutting
Apart my voice, shredded exhales
Of misunderstood words.

I scream and I spit out white noise,
Noting heard but everything said,
When my lungs collapse that which
Was bled on the shards now expelled

I am so tired of bleeding my words the
Pain they bring forth, my voice is numb,
I have said enough. I have my words
Cut Apart, if you never heard were
You listening from the start.

I built the playhouse
To withstand
The seige of time.
Like Hadrian,
I dismayed the border people.
Starlight shone through
Crescent moons
Like the Ishtar Gate of Babylon.
Children shrieked and wailed
Against those walls
As nomads in northern China,
Or Philistines in Jeruselum.
But time is a formidable outsider,
And my small walls would tumble
To the blasts of tempus trumpets.
My hand runs lovingly across
Your names on those
Memorial Walls.