Author: Klaus

  • photos

    Kell Robertson, Tony Moffeit, & Rick Terlep belly up to Silver Dollar Saloon, Raton, New Mexico — September 14, 1991 — photo by Mark Weber

  • renegade

    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…

  • jimi hendrix at monterey

    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

    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

    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

  • outlaw: the roots

    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.

  • you ain’t nothing but the blues

    you ain’t nothin but the blues

    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 alone am your double

    i alone am your double

    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

    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 and frida kahlo

    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