as if you would search out a poem among hundreds of poems. the one you would kill for. the one you would die for. the one that would make you forget your darkest memory. or take that dark memory and use its dark energy. the one that would make you see in your blindness. make you reach out for the blackness as if it were a new light. to be buried alive in that blackness. to feel yourself in your breaking. and in the breaking the blackness becomes a new light.

something giving birth whether it is a bullet or a word. something invented out of nothing when you have stayed hungry and lost in the motion, starved and lost in the action, revealing to yourself your multiple identities. the berserk storm that unveils your many faces, your many voices. when the lights are out and the dreams take over, and you are back into the breaking.

nothing is real. there are only ghosts, only phantoms. nothing words from no mouth. no voice no answer. everything reborn into nothingness. i want to find the secret of shifting identities. nothing is real. everything for the taking. renegade theater. zero in the blood.
zero in the bones. zero in the eyes. it’s just a demon fever that carves out the night. it’s just a hunger looking for something it can’t define.

the light is dim almost non-existent. i dream of the day when i’ll really awaken. all i have is my feeling, my reaching out in the blackness for shapes in the shadows. i listen all day in the silence. the words overhead. the words overheard. the words underneath. at the end of a corridor is a mirror. the mirror has gone crazy. i watch myself in my breaking.

i have dissected my agony and come out on the other side. time has lost its way in space and my phantom motion cries out to canyons. the trigonometry of darkness. all equations reduced to blackness. renegade equations of madness. i no longer want to be sane, like an assassin sought out by assassins.

i want to be buried alive in the blackness. i remember how to disappear. i remember places and faces. in the here and now crow has come out to give you his mouth. i’ll tell you my secrets with a knifeblade, carve them on the walls. in my fever, a seeing a craving. to pass out and awake hallucinatory.

assassins in the shadows. i reach out for the lightning, haunted by the breaking, the breaking of the blackness, the breaking of the darkness. i feel myself in my breaking. everything for the taking. what is love’s gamble? are you invisible when faces ride the train? or when rain turns to snow and snow turns back into rain? or is that when the hell cards come into play?

the waiting game. the crying game. the killing game. strategies of assassins. where will i find my other face? i remember a previous identity. it’s like discovering your other half. a breakthrough in my amnesia. eaten alive by the nighttime. the darkness invades me. two train whistles intertwined, like a trickster burnt out and laughing.

Tony Moffeit books and his CD Outlaw Blues Revolution are available here…

fire in the eyes for the sacrifice
fire in the eyes for the sacrifice
his fingers summoned the spirits
his fingers summoned the ghosts
fire in the eyes for the sacrifice
the guitar on the stage floor
the ritualistic ceremony of
lighting the guitar with lighter fluid
till the flames lit the stage
till the guitar lit the stage

fire in the eyes for the sacrifice
fire in the eyes for the sacrifice

setting the guitar on fire and
then in a trance motioning for
the spirits to emerge from the guitar

his fingers summoned the spirits
his fingers summoned the ghosts

the song was no longer a song
the guitar was no longer a guitar
it was all a sacrifice the guitar
was finished the song was finished
the festival was finished but jimi,
jimi had just begun

he played the guitar behind his back
he played the guitar behind his neck
he played the guitar upside down
he played the guitar with his teeth
he played the guitar while doing a
backward somersault
he squirted lighter fluid on the guitar
he lit a match and set the guitar on fire
he summoned the spirits from the guitar
but that was not enough
no, that was not enough
he smashed the flaming guitar on the floor of the stage
he slammed the flaming guitar on the floor of the stage
he destroyed the flaming guitar on the floor of the stage

let me be your black cat bone
i wanta be your black cat bone
let me be your black snake moan
i wanta be your black snake moan

left-handed gun left-handed guitar
jimi’s blitz on the strings
wild thing tonight
coyote came out of the hills
to the edge of town
and the blood moon
matched his fingers on the strings

o fortune teller
whatcha read in his palm
long-fingered jimi
left-handed sacrificial jimi
wailing on the outskirts of the stage
any angle was a good angle
for the camera
to shoot jimi in action
it was high noon
in dodge city

the guitar as sacrificial victim
the fingers summoning the spirits

fire in the eyes for the sacrifice
fire in the eyes for the sacrifice

and prior to the fire the humping
of the amps the playing of the
strings of the guitar with his teeth

let me be your mojo tooth
i wanta be your mojo tooth
let me be your john the conquer root
i wanta be your john the conquer root

an archetype a metaphor one man
one guitar one song wild thing

the blues was the skin that he lived in

was he searching for his voice
was he searching for his face
was he searching for his eyes
was he searching for his sound
was he searching for his tongue
was he searching for his rhythm

the blues was the skin that he lived in

his fingers summoned the spirits
his fingers summoned the ghosts

the guitar goes up in flames but that’s
not enough take the flaming guitar and
smash it and pound it and destroy it

fire in the eyes for the sacrifice
fire in the eyes for the sacrifice

when jimi was asked why he did it
he replied i don’t know, i don’t know
i guess, you know, i guess, you know
it was just some kind of release

a love supreme

it’s never too late
never too late
never too late
to look at
your own face
it rained in the streets
rained in the streets
rained through our dreams
a love supreme
a love supreme
it rained in new orleans
jazz in the streets
an ancient blues
filtering through the air
so that every move
is old and new
sleepy time saxophone
beads of rain leaking
down the window pane
it’s never too late
to look at
your own face
the old conjure man
with his roots
and bones
vendor cries
vendor calls
it’s never too late
to open
your dream
a love supreme
a love supreme

and i only know
black silk magnolia
fried bananas
in a french quarter room
on a wet afternoon
umbrellas and horns
in the street below
it’s never too late
to open your dream
the shift of light
the way it bends and flows
over old wood and stone
and i only know
the buzz and roar
of bourbon street
carhorns and sirens
jazzhorns and pianos
mimes and shoeshines
the wild shouts
of the old-time blues
the mojo eyes of voodoo
and i only know
the drum of her body
the jungle of her moves
the pulse of her blood
the dance of her breath
the glow of her skin
in the late afternoon
as foghorns mix with
saxophones and the
smells of the quarter
soak into you

it’s never too late
a love supreme
never too late
a love supreme
it’s just those ghosts
of new orleans
those phantoms who
haunt your dreams
open the windows
to the screams
of bourbon street
a love supreme
a love supreme
and i want to be
a voodoo king
with the power
of my gris-gris
burn a candle
for your destiny
dance the snake
for your identity
as the night burns
down in chicken
blood and swamp mud
i want to chant
of the snake god
damballah and
the mysteries

it’s never too late
to look at
your own face
in a backalley bar
or a french quarter balcony
feel the hypnotic pull
of snake eggs
snakeskin
the way she
moves like
a snake
the trace of her neck
her back
like a snake dance
it’s never too late
to open your dream
the drum of her body
the beat of her blood
a love supreme
a love supreme
and i want the rain
the shuddering thunder
of her body
i want to paint and sing
her body’s dance
feel the tribal blood
the jungle of
her body’s drum

SPIRITS

calling the ghosts
calling the ghost dance
calling the ghost tongue

speaking in tongues
speaking in ghost tongues
speaking in ghost language

the rain tonight so ecstatic that it turns to snow
the snow tonight so ecstatic that it turns to rain
rain turning to snow, snow turning to rain
even the windshield wipers are confused

john coltrane return and play a love supreme
chet baker return and play my funny valentine
a wild gypsy night of mad love
miles davis return and play sketches of spain

albert ayler return and play spirits

vision vision i can hear voices
spirits my hands my eyes my hands
my eyes float from me
my fingers reach up through water
albert ayler plays his solo
and my eyes open
for that which is called spirit
for that which is hungered for
my eyes my hands hungry
my spirit hungry for
spirits which are hungered for
albert ayler play your solo
the ghosts are dancing tonight

poetry and death and love and poetry and death
a wild gypsy night of mad love
where nothing matters but the body of the soul
and the soul of the body
a wild gypsy night of mad love
poetry and death and love and poetry and death
the poet is born in the ghost of a dance
the poet is born into the mirror of his own breath
the poet is born and the clock
has left its hands in the sand

albert ayler plays for the spirits of the dead
albert ayler plays for the ghosts of the dead
albert ayler’s solo is a ghost ride
albert ayler’s solo dances with
the ghosts of the dead
albert ayler plays and we must slide
into the saddle of the phantom horse
let’s take a ghost ride
albert ayler plays and in playing
talks with the ghosts of the dead

the rule, then what is the rule?
there is no rule

the tongue wrung

mad love understands the chaos
mad love invented the chaos
and the only way to be calm
in the middle of the chaos
is to be madly in love

albert ayler playing at the funeral of john coltrane
little bird they call him
playing on the streets with little walter
albert ayler playing spirits

my eyes float in dreamwater
i want to wear your skin
his solo lives on the edge of everything
i want to taste your blood
it lives on the edge of everything

still locked in the embrace of that moment
can’t seem to get out of the embrace
of that moment

in dream the blood the spirit
his solo soaring
the soul the spirit tongue
his solo diving
the roots the roots
the burning
a place of feeling
a state of being
all dissolving
all returning

albert ayler plays and calls the ghosts
albert ayler plays and calls the ghost dance
albert ayler plays and dances with the ghosts
the mist is in the air from the rain turning to snow
and the snow turning to rain

soaring and diving
soaring and diving
deep into
the roots
spirits spirits spirits
emerge

i. the blood of the poet

outlaw begins with blood. the blood of the poet. the visceral. the guts. the blood and the guts. that secret part of the brain. where the blood meets the guts in the electricity of the brain waves. and there is lightning in the veins. and the brain drives the limbs. the feet and the knees and the legs. and the arms and the shoulders and the stomach. a dance. the dreamwaves of the brain drive the dance. a billy the kid dance in which the gunfight is mad love. a theater of blood in which the gunfight is mad love.

it is total body in which the voice is searched out and found. a howl. a moan. a groan. a shout. a song. and even though the body may crumble it revives and is strong. from the voice. from the fire in the voice. from the fire in the song. and you find it is time to burn.

and it is mad passion you seek. delirious blood. the blood of the poet. dissatisfied. always dissatisfied. until you find: bullet words. words that graze the skin. words that enter the skin and you bleed. words that inspire a gundance. words that leap from the lips like lightning waves. or silence. a brutal silence that is there because you seek so much more to say.

it all begins with blood. the hot gypsy blood of a wild night. and the blood drives the electricity. and you want to be hypnotized. to have the receptivity of mesmerization. to be mesmerized by your own music. and what do you call it? you call it outlaw. because it is beyond all laws. and because you are a law unto yourself.

and what do you call it? you call it outlaw. and what do you call it? you call it ghost language. because it is a phantom. and because it is blood. ghostblood billy. billy the kid. because he reached the intensity of himself.

and what do you call it? you call it new icons. you call it new metaphors. you call it new archetypes. and where do you find it? with the outlaws. with those who invent something new.

and the landscape is barren. the outlaw appears where the landscape is barren. the outlaw appears out of nothingness to create new icons, new metaphors, new archetypes.

and it is not enough to create new archetypes, unless the new archetype has a taste of the old, the primitive, the raw crux of the universal, the eternal, the metaphysical, the magical. new archetypes which reach into the raw essence of life. new archetypes which reach into the roots, the essence, the soulfire.

ii. who are you?

outlaw begins with the purity of the vision. outlaw begins with the mysticism of the vision. outlaw begins with no separation between the mystical and the physical. outlaw begins with no separation between the visceral and the spiritual. outlaw begins with no separation between the will and surrender. outlaw begins with self-creation and with a receptivity to mystical forces. the outlaw is the one who creates and the one who is a receptor to being created by mystical forces.

and the crux of all the magic is the mystical tuning of the poet himself. only when the poet has reached the mystical trance of complete receptivity to the spiritual forces can he receive the dictation purely. only then can he be written by the poem. it is a trance and a dance.

the poem transfigures and transmutes. the performance of the poet transfigures and transmutes. the performance of the poet liberates. for the poet touches the poet core of the individual. individual to individual. one on one. ghost to ghost. blood to blood. the performance of the poet is a revolutionary act of ritual magic. the question is: who are you? the question is: you are who? and the answer is: you are who you are not. you are the ghost who has left yourself. you are most yourself when you are least yourself. you are most yourself when you are the ghost of yourself.

iii. poetry is dangerous, the poet is an outlaw

poetry is dangerous because the poet is an outlaw. poetry is dangerous because the poet lives by his own law: you are who you create yourself to be.

poetry is dangerous because the poet is on his own. poetry is dangerous because the poet is alone. poetry is dangerous because the poet creates his own laws.

poetry is dangerous because the poet is an outlaw. poetry is dangerous because the poet lives on the edge. poetry is dangerous because the poet welcomes obstacles. poetry is dangerous because the poet learns from defeat, learns from conflict.

poetry is dangerous because the poet’s greatest war is with himself.

poetry is dangerous because the poet creates his own marginality. poetry is dangerous because the poet lives internally. poetry is dangerous because the lifeforce is placed squarely in the hands of the poet, so he has no excuses.

poetry is dangerous because the poet is a law unto himself.

poetry is dangerous because the poet is about revolutionary action. poetry is dangerous because the poet is a revolutionary. poetry is dangerous because the poet is an outlaw.

iv. to be born again

outlaw is in the air. outlaw is in the blood. the blood of the poet is stirring in red rivers. the blood of the poet is stirring in red waters. the revolution of the outlaw is about taking your life into your own hands, is about becoming the lightning bolt, is about becoming the bullet syllables, is about destroying everything and beginning anew. the revolution of the outlaw is about creating a whole new vein of language, of thought. it’s about laying waste to the entire landscape. and beginning anew with a line. no, a word. no, a syllable. one true outlaw impulse.

outlaw is about unveiling the mysteries of everyday life. the blood is thick in the air. you can smell it. you can taste it. outlaw is about connecting with the blood rhythms. outlaw is about becoming a law unto yourself. outlaw is about a constant search, a constant stalking of that original face before you were born, of that secret self that is your real self. of that gutcore of who and what you are. of that bedrock of who and what you are not. outlaw is about that rush of constant creativity. outlaw is about the obsessive velocity of living and writing at the speed of light. outlaw is about becoming a light wave.

and where do you find the outlaw? everywhere and nowhere. everywhere because the potential is everywhere. nowhere because the outlaw is in a state of invention, of creation, of breaking ground. you can only experience ghost words, ghost lines, ghost images, ghost rhythms, for the outlaw is in embryo. o, wait, the outlaw has been born!

v. theater of blood

where is the poetic act? where is the moment where ritual meets magic? where is the moment where performance is heightened by lightning in the veins? where is the mystery of a new identity borrowed from the night? when is existence turned into theater? when is a new kind of truth found? when is the impossible made possible? i want to go back to moments of primitive magic. i want to go back to primitive poets performing in the night.
i want to go back to the utter ecstasy of their beings glowing in the dark like haunted skeletons. the mysticism of their moves. the vibrations of their voices. when everyday life is turned into theater. when improvised stages become shadowed ecstasies. when the poet becomes another being.

the emotional cleansing of these performances, the catharsis, the purgation, is something different. it is a catharsis through the overflow of intensity of the poet through the poem. it is a high voltage wire that is thrown through the crowd. the poet’s body and spirit become a piece of lightning. language becomes something else. the subhuman and the inhuman become superhuman. that’s when the poet touches the root source of trance. that’s when the poet touches the root source of the spell. that’s when the poet casts his spell. the poet becomes ridden by the horse of seance. the poet becomes acted upon by other forces.

vi. revolution

outlaw is about the revitalization of language. outlaw is about the revitalization of spirit. outlaw is about the revitalization of the individual. outlaw is about creating yourself out of nothing. outlaw is about making yourself out of nothing. outlaw is about making your own laws.

outlaw is about being in a state of creation, of invention. outlaw is about new ideas and new ways of thinking. outlaw is about new ways of living, new ways of breaking loose. as much as anything, it is about liberty.

outlaw is about ecstasy, exhiliration, magnificent energy, a force that sweeps away everything in its path. outlaw is about becoming a being who is a wave of energy.

outlaw is about the power of the persona of the outlaw artist. outlaw is about the immediate impression of the individual behind the art: the enormous identity, the driven rebellion, the artistic innovation.

outlaw is about endless energy, endless vitality, endless searching, endless finding, endless creativity. outlaw is about busting down the doors, knocking down the walls, and in a burst of energy, finding yourself, losing yourself, freeing yourself.

outlaw is about changing your own life, changing your own way of living, changing your own way of thinking, changing your own way of being. outlaw is about creating a revolution in terms of the way you live. a revolution of one. a revolution of one on one.

i want to blow sweet and cool these horn words
i want to blow on rainy street corner nights a long sweet solo
i want to howl my blues mojo and juju rage against the sky
i want to turn the night insane call out to you on the lonely avenues
cryin baby baby baby baby baby i’m a fool
i’m a fool i’m a fool i’m a fool i’m a fool what’s a fool to do
i’m a fool for you i’m a fool for you you ain’t nothin but the blues
let me wail let me moan let me be a train whistle coming out of the night
let me bring the storm let me be the lightning that flashes
out of the corner of your eye let me be the thunder’s roar
let me call out to you let me rage against the sky
let me improvise with my night eyes a solo of shadows
a solo of mirrors a solo of candles a solo of bones
let me blow in the alley of my soul a long sweet solo
let me blow in the nightstreets of my bones sweet and cool
let me blow in the backstreets of my blood a raging blues
you ain’t nothin but the blues you ain’t nothin but the blues
you ain’t nothin but the blue blue blue blue blues
i want to howl in the junkyards i want to howl in the graveyards
i want to howl my blues in the salvage yards i want to howl my
blues in the trainyards i want to howl my blues in the steelyards
i want to howl my blues mojo and juju i want to howl my blues
by the gasoline pumps and i want to howl my blues by old filling stations
and i want to howl my blues by abandoned motels and i want to howl my
blues down by the river and i want to howl my blues in phantom canyons
you you you you you you you you you ain’t nothin but the
blue blue blue blue blue blues and i want to howl for the blue moon
and i want to howl for the shooting stars and i want to howl for the
constellations and i want to howl for the meteors streaking across the sky
i want to bring the sky inside i want to bring the sky inside
i want to stain constellations with the blood of my fire
i want to leak shooting stars from my eyes
i wanta dig way down deep inside i wanta dig way down deep inside
when there ain’t nothin left to hide i wanta dig way down deep inside
deeper into the darkness deeper into the blackness deeper into the night
deeper into the night deeper into the night
let me howl my blues, baby, let me howl my blues
let me rage against the sky let me turn the night insane
in the crazy darkness let me rage let me sing let me cry
what’s a fool to do what’s a fool to do
in the streets at night let me wail let me moan let me whine
i’m a fool for you i’m a fool for you
you ain’t nothin but the blues you ain’t nothin but the blues
you ain’t nothin but the blue blue blue blue blues

i saw where you were born
where you were born in fire
i drum the night i drum the
dark i drum the streets dark
blood stood open to find
real touch i drum the old
motel rooms and howl the
backstairs there is a way
for you to tell me what you
want me to do that sound
you hear is my moan i give
you my tongue there is a
way to be born to be with you
fingertips darting flaming
living down my hands
open all you have torn from
an old wound i create you
in what i do i do not sleep
i do not sleep all you have
your profile as your turn
all through moan lingers
i drum the sea i drum the tide
all you have born into the wild
it is jamming blood i drum
body flood and breath all
you have the scar of fires
sun tongue and drum night
i walk on my knees all you
have the flint of your fingertips
i am the zebra the cobra i drum
inside outside the skin holds
the fever of the pulse i drum
searching a footstomp i drum
painting the darkness you come
back to touch unchained i jump
jungle the land i am my own
shadow the last frontier the
drum is the mouth of the fingers
i am your skin liquid i am
going down you stayed up all
night every pore alive all down
to it across the need around us
i drum the beat the spirits talk
to the ghosts who haunt us
speak feel rainy to my shake
and moan the hole card is
singing planet pounding
blazing orbit something
shaking the first card to sing
in the rain ignites the
masquerade to be born into
a new form a new shape
of the mirror cabaret of your
eyes blind down rider
voice of smoke wanting to
wear your skin feel your
blood moves i sing a song
of blood and torches to be
what you are the jungle fire
of a voodoo drum i visit your
dreams i look around for you
i invent a solo in the bones
a breath that dances fire
torn from the aching darkness
into the light could be because
you threw the dice that came up
snake eyes you are who you are
could be because you have
taken the dream from the pillow
death finds air in a kiss
could be because the house
drank the window of night
i alone am your double
could be because my voice
is a dark sleep a tongue
to speak in you shake the
hand of the flame ancient ache
of cobra moves you are the
deja vu of a mirage i am that
i am other than what i was
i want the snake charm of
your skin rhythm i sing alone
like a note in a forest i let it
fall go down learn to in joy
such out of me easily next
to you now cave bear late
night of me there are secrets
that move at their own speed
in the raw infinity of a moan
time turns inside space opens
drumfire over the edge
the breath returns in the rain
drinking all we have i am
your madness your dance
the last blues left standing
in the dark ring of desire

VOODOO SNAKE WOMAN BLUES was published in 2006 by Medici Publishing, Pueblo, CO. It may be ordered for $11.95 plus $2.00 shipping and handling from Medici Publishing, PO Box 562, Pueblo, CO 81002. All artwork for the book is by Patrick Keller. The poetry themes are: blues poetry, jazz poetry, New Orleans poetry, outlaw poetry.

voodoo snake woman blues

ask yourself why and know why
it’s all in the snake woman’s
moves all you gotta do is
feel the blues all you gotta
do is take your time all you
gotta do is dance alone
make your own voodoo
slide in rhythm with the night
shadowdance in the darkness
the torch singing blackness
listen for the solo of the
train whistle’s whine
in the middle of the night
listen for the moans of
dogs mixing with the night’s
sirens and watch her dance
full of doghowls and red
lights the whiplash of her
snakedance flames licking
the dancefloor with her
hexdance wild heart jumping
pumping the darkness as
her dance chants with the
crickets and locusts and
bullfrogs torches the
sawdust with her ramshackle
rhythms in a finger-snap
she gives sight to the
mirrors which are blind
bright moments listen for
the incantations of her
spirit something falling
down coming down going
down the slap of the cards
the tumble of the dice
the center of her surrender
caught in the night’s slide

BILLY THE KID & FRIDA KAHLO was published in 2000 by Ye Olde Font Shoppe, New Haven, CT, and may be ordered online from Ye Olde Font Shoppe. Much of the book is an imaginary dialogue between Billy the Kid and the Mexican artist, Frida Kahlo.

billy

where did you
get your power
they asked

and i answered
from myself

and walked
the length
of the town

wanting to get
a sense of the
geometry of
the kill

the sun
flashing
against glass

the jingling
of my spurs
like little
death bells

Billy The Kid In The Theater Of Blood | Todd Moore

I am staring at the cover of a pure Outlaw classic, just published by the Outlaw Press in Pueblo, Colorado. It’s perfect bound, with signature black depths and striking yellows and reds all across it. The surreal figure wearing the big cowboy hat and poncho is Tony Moffeit and the title of this book is BLUES FOR BILLY THE KID. There is no price on the cover simply because this book is, according to Moffeit, one of a kind, not for sale.

While all books written by Outlaw Poets are one of a kind, this one really is just the one. Moffeit, who has long been known for his fascination with Billy the Kid has published this book on his own press and is giving it away to close friends, tells me that BLUES FOR BILLY THE KID is still a work in progress.

I suppose the question that Moffeit may be asked is if this book is unavailable to the reading public, then why bother to review it? After all, aren’t book reviews written to sell books? My answer is that it is becoming less and less the case. It probably works for mainstream publishers but book reviewing for small press books really has little to do with money. The purpose it accomplishes for a poet like Tony Moffeit is really to announce the fact that an important book has been released to reviewers and critics regardless of the print run. I say important book because BLUES FOR BILLY THE KID is an important book. Important because it joins other important books such as A HORSE CALLED DESPERATION, PLAIN OLD BOOGIE LONG DIVISION, ADVENTURES IN THE GUNTRADE, and DILLINGER as landmark narratives in the Outlaw Generation.

Since the mid to late seventies, Tony Moffeit has made a name for himself mainly as a poet and a pop culture critic. His bluesy poetry performances have electrified audiences around the country for years. However with the publication, and use the word publication with the broadest possible application, of BLUES FOR BILLY THE KID, Moffeit is now stepping up in the role of long narrative writer, more so than ever before. BLUES might easily be called a long poem. The format of his long lined page is very similar to an earlier Moffeit poem like Luminous Animal. The difference, however, is that each section of this work is divided into discrete chapters which make me believe that Moffeit’s BLUES is really meant to be a novel. I don’t think I would be far off the mark to call it a novel-in-progress.

And, I am already anticipating those critics and readers who might say, but what about the length and where are the well drawn characters? As for the length, I estimate it to be somewhere around eight to ten thousand words long. As for the characters, all characters are emanations of the writer’s demon obsessed self and night bound other. The clearest drawn character is Moffeit himself or the Moffeit narrator. The elusive other is actually the Kid.

One thing to keep in mind about the novel as a form. It has never been clearly defined as a form. It varies from writer to writer. Breton’s NADJA is as unique as Hedayat’s THE BLIND OWL. The characters are not all that well defined in either book. Or, take Michael Ondaatje’s THE COLLECTED WORKS OF BILLY THE KID which is part prose, part poetry and is often classified as a work of poetry. A classification I totally disagree with. It’s definitely a novel and not a very long one at that. My estimate that it’s barely twenty thousand words long. And, while length is really only a quibble with regard to the novel, lets recall that some of the great novels have barely exceeded thirty thousand words. Those would include THE STRANGER, THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA, and THE HEART OF DARKNESS.

While BLUES FOR BILLY THE KID is a novel, it is at this point still a work in progress, so who knows what its final length will be. What I do know is that it is a novel of rare and hypnotic power as it stands. I like to think that poets’ novels have a quality I tend to equate with heavy water used in the production of nuclear weapons. A poet’s novel is dense with suggestion, metaphor, dream, and nightmare. I think this idea might as easily be applied to THE BELL JAR, DOCTOR ZHIVAGO, DELIVERANCE, or THE CARDBOARD HOUSE. At any rate, those certainly are the qualities to be found in BLUES FOR BILLY THE KID. Kid novels in america are anomalies, wormholes of fiction, images of extreme and mysterious notation, snapshots from the void. The most accessible ones are those that appear as pulp westerns, too numerous to mention. Serious writers such as Larry McMurtry, M. Scott Momaday, and Michael Ondaatje have each taken a turn at writing about the Kid. And, even in BLOOD MERIDIAN there is a character called the Kid and while he is not meant to be the historical Billy, the suggestion is still there that he is a cubist fragment, a fly away shadow of old Billy Bonney.

While many have written thousands and thousands of words about the Kid, nobody really knows who he was or what he was like. I personally came to this conclusion while writing my novel DREAMING OF BILLY THE KID. And, during the course of my research into the adventures of the Kid of all kids, especially talking to other novelists who have written extensively about the Kid, I reached the conclusion that the Kid never really knew the Kid. How can anyone, especially a famous outlaw ever know the legend, the myth, and the origins of his own personal darkness?

The Kid was the Kid and each and every poet and novelist who approaches this mystery eventually comes away with the knowledge that the Kid is that impenetrable darkness which can only be guessed at but really never breached. After all the bare bone facts are known and the speculations made, the only thing a novelist or a poet can do is dream. But the dream must be made as a wager and the wager is always done with the blood.

Which is what I think Moffeit has done. BLUES FOR BILLY THE KID is on its way to becoming one of the essential books of the Outlaw Revolution. If anything this novel is as much an attempt to conjure the Kid right out of the dust as DILLINGER is an attempt to rescue John Dillinger from the blood splattered alley near the Biograph Theater. Think of Moffeit’s act of writing it as the equivalent of Maria Sabina performing one of her Veladas to cure someone. Maybe himself. Or, Black Elk’s attempt to call back the buffalo. And, no, Tony Moffeit is definitely not a shaman. Not in the old primal sense of the word. But Moffeit is an Outlaw Poet painting his fragmented novel the way that Picasso painted Guernica. Moffeit is a primal poet somehow trying to conjure an outlaw america, to shore it up against future Enrons and Abu Ghraibs, trying to piece it all together as some kind of answer to what passes for the bankrupt poetry of the mainstream presses, as some kind of reply to the shit that passes for great art today. A book like BLUES FOR BILLY THE KID is an american death song. I salute him from the theater of blood.