Weston Ochse's Blog, page 25

War Desk - Afghanistan

I've shared pictures of my office at home. Lots of space. Desk covered with comic book covers. Arizona sunlight streaming in. dogs basking in the rays. Books galore. Pictures of friends and past literary conquests.

Afghanistan has none of that. I live in a fifteen by fifteen square foot space, with a wall locker, a bed, and a desk setup-- and I feel lucky to have it. Some folks are stacked three and four to a room like mine. Housing is in a shortage, so to have enough space to call my own is a luxury.

So here's my creative space, or my war desk, if you will.



What's there? Let's see if I can give you a tour. Gunbelt. Hat. Head lamp. Some books. Lots of water. a book of postcard pics from the National Gallery of Art -- Hudson river School -- to remind me how beautiful America is. French soap. A compass from my wive. Food. My computer.  Random pills. Kindle. Ear buds. Pocket knife. Ray Bans.

Here's Hemingway in Africa, 1954.


I daresay his is a little more rustic.

I've already edited SEAL Team 666: Age of Blood here, worked on a short story, and a comic book with William F. Nolan. It's a good space. I have tunes to listen to, and if the sounds of helicopters and vehicles get too loud, there are always headphones.

I look forward to doing more work here.

And when I'm done, I'm coming home.

The Vicissitudes of Being Edited - Toward vs Towards

Here I am, once again, going through edits on this, my eleventh novel. It's an interesting process. I'm pretty open to most edits, after all, I am a product of the Tennessee education system of the late 1970s and early 1980s, which received the least amount of money per child than any other state at the time. Therefore, I understand my own faults. I'm also a product of pop culture, so I tend to spell things in the popular manner, instead of the appropriate manner, sometimes.

Frankly, I'm just happy to be edited by real competent people. Thank you St. Martin's Press and Thomas Dunne Books for assigning a platoon of Ivy League graduates to assault edit SEAL Team 666: Age of Blood. I can always use a good edit. Hell, as is the case, I can always use five good edits. Bring them on.

One of the funny things, though, is I can always tell when someone is trained in British grammar or U.S. grammar. Or more specifically, I can always tell whether The Element of Style by Strunk and White or The Chicago Manual of Style is their grammar reference.

[image error] Geoffrey K. Pullum in a NY Times article says, 'The anodyne style advice that Strunk and White offers is harmless enough,' but their 'simplistic don’t-do-this, don’t-write-that instructions offered in the book would not guarantee good writing if they were obeyed.' The article continues to quote others about the book's shortfalls, but the one thing about The Elements of Style is that it is pleasantly short and to the point. Truly, The Elements of Style is a thin book, if whose pages were torn and rolled, could be smoked in a matter of days, if not hours.

Wherein The Chicago Manual of Style is a prodigous tome which could be used as a lethal weapon.

But does size matter?

There are many who would say it always matters. On that subject, I'll defer, but as far as grammar, because I'm from the U.S. and writing primarily for a U.S. market, I refer to the Chicago Manual of Style.

What's the difference, you ask? Here's an example with whether to use that or which. Also, here Absolute Write people pine about the books in kind of a funny way.

There's also the serial comma. Dear lord, arguments about this havecaused wars.

PRO SERIAL COMMA: "By train, plane and sedan chair, Peter Ustinov retraces a journey made by Mark Twain a century ago. The highlights of his global tour include encounters with Nelson Mandela, an 800-year-old demigod and a dildo collector." Languagehat dug this gem out of a comment thread on the serial comma. It's from a TV listing in The Times. It supports the use of the Oxford comma, but only because it keeps Mandela from being a dildo collector. However, even the Oxford comma can't keep him from being an 800-year-old demigod. There's only so much a comma can do.
 

I've been converted to the serial comma because my NY Editors like it and because of my appreciation for Nelson Mandela.

But now I'm facing a different dilemma.  The use of the word toward or towards, as in showing direction to an object or a place.

Which one is correct?

I'm afraid that both of them are. Yep. You have it right. The British way is towards and the U.S. way is toward. In some space-time-continuem insanity, it seems that I've been using the British way and assing the s every time. In What Tim Lebbon-running, Sarah Pinborough-Chardonnay Drinking, Neil Gaiman-singing British universe have I found myself in? I didn't even know I was there.

So what do my Ivy League-trained, serial-comma-loving-NY-publishers want? The American way. Check out Mirriam Webster for the reasoning.

I feel bad for the line editor. He corrected my towards to toward 185 times in this manuscript. I hope he was paid well for each one. In fact, if he was paid for each one, I might be his favorite client.

So onward and upward, towards toward success I go. Soon, I shall learn the lessons, which that that which I should learn to be the author of which editors dream. HAHA

Seriously. And here I sit in Afghanistan, editing, contemplating editing, and editing.

Sigh.

As my wife says, this is what makes me a professional.

Cheers

Weston Ochse
Kabul, Afghanistan

Things to Come from Weston- Next 365

Here's what's coming in the next 365 days from me in one manner or another. I hope I didn't leave anything out, but I have a nagging feeling I did -

Short Fiction

Behind Enemy Lines - A collection of four supernatural military thriller novellas from Weston Ochse, Michael McBride, Gord Rollo and Gene O'Neil. My novella is titled Tranquility Tides. To be published by Dark Regions Press (Complete)

Death Race 2000 - A woven collection of four novellas, to be published by Roy James Daley, Books of the Dead Press (Editing)


When I Knew Baseball - Short story appearing in World War II Cthulhu ebook anthology published by Cubicle 7 (Complete).


The  Weight of a Dead Man  - a short story co-written with Yvonne Navarro and edited by Paul Kane and Charles Prepolec and published by Titan Books, appearing in Beyond the Rue Morgue (complete).

Lovers Leap of Faith - short story appearing in Inhuman Magazine (complete).

Gravitas - Short story appearing in Nightmare Magazine, edited by John Joseph Adams (Complete).

The Fine Art of Courage - dark fantasy Hemingway story appearing in Cycatrix Press anthology.

Beneath the Scorpion Tree, reprinted in the Haunted Mansion Volume II (Complete).

Unamed short story in an unnamed steampunk weird western anthology (working).

Unnamed short story in an unnamed military fantasy anthology (working).



Novels

Halfway House, Novel, published by  Journalstone Books. Haunted house novel set in Los Angeles (Complete).

Grunt Life, Novel, published by Solaris Books. Military science fiction novel set in the near future (Working).

SEAL Team 666: Age of Blood, published by Thomas Dunne Books. Sequel to SEAL Team 666 (Complete).

SEAL Team 666 , U.K. Edition, published by Titan Books.


Works on the Backburner


Ranger Candy- novel about revenge
Third Book in Aegis Trilogy
American Golem - novella
Comic Book with William F. Nolan

Driving to the Green Zone - An Afghanistan Story

“Put your gear on. We’re heading out,” Scott says. He wears fatigues with body armor and a P229 pistol on his hip, looking 100% badass in his six foot two inch U.S. Army Command Sergeant Major body.
My driver is a U.S. Air Force Tech Sergeant who wears crazy eyes above a winning boy-next-door sort of smile. As I struggle into my body armor, trying to figure out what the hell to do with all the Velcro and buckles, they shut the substantial back door of the up-armored SUV. I finally climbed in and began fighting with the seat belt.

“Don’t worry about that. It’ll just get caught up on something if we get in the shit,” says Crazy Eyes.
I muse about telling them about the training I’d just gone through. I think maybe I might be able to get out if we were in the shit, as he said, but that one second of self-doubt makes me listen to him. After all, he’s the professional. I’m just along for the ride. I’m the package that Scott has promised the U.S. government and my wife that he’ll deliver safely.
They move their weapon status from amber to green, and we begin moving away from the airport around a dozen hair pin turns bound by concrete barriers to keep the great unwashed and explodable masses away. Just last year an SUV similar to the one I was in was almost destroyed when a truck pulled up behind it and detonated as they waited to enter through security. The nature of the entrance changed since then, as has surveillance on the lone road leading to the airport.
Coming in the airport was supposed to be safe.
And it probably was.
But we were going out.
I’d been both dreading and looking forward to this moment for two years, ever since I was told I was going to Afghanistan, if not a lifetime. I hate rollercoasters. I hate fast rides. I hate twists and turns. I hate it when someone else drives. With all of them it’s a lack of control. I understand the psychology of it.
But please explain this psychology -- I was about to be driven from point A to point B along a route with known terrorists who have proven they can blow vehicles up with improvised explosive devices, vehicle borne improvised explosive devices, and suicide bombers and I wasn’t scared. I was freaking excited and a small part of me in the back of my mind told me that I really should be a little more worried.But I wasn’t. My crazy Tech Sergeant knew how to drive and my Sergeant Major knew how to guide.
So let me set the scene.
You exit the airport sitting in the backseat of an up-armored SUV.
Four lane streets containing cars parked on either side in places pothole in front of you, sometimes separated by a thin median, but not always. One story buildings and hovels line the sidewalks, teeming with people shopping, talking, going about their everyday business. Like the signs to the businesses themselves, they are multi-colored, sometimes garish and confetti eye candy to the watchful eye. Some of them sit. Some of them stand. Others break into a run. Most don’t even notice you, but you can’t help but stand out. You’re in an up-armored white SUV with tinted windows and antennas jutting like an Armageddon porcupine among a country full of Datsons, Nissans, Toyotas and the like. So they stare. Are they curious? Do they wonder who you are? Do they realize you’re the great evil American, here to eat their children and make the populace the next MTV generation? Are they about to report you to someone down the road for your red, white and blue soul? Look, one has a phone. Are they calling ahead, activating an IED, or checking if the wife wants milk and eggs?
Crazy-eyed driver keys up playlist on the radio.
Heavy metal thrums inside the vehicle drowning out every other sound. Every one that is except—
“Drive,” commands Sergeant Major.
We accelerate to fifty and begin to weave through slower traffic down the Great Massoud Road.
Left side, car pulls in front, we swerve and don’t stop.
“Car. Right side. Parked.”
“Got it,” says Crazy Eyes.
We zoom past.
No boom.
Good thing.
Two cars come in from the right at high speed. Looks like they might be trying to block us or just maybe trying to hurry across.
Doesn’t matter.
“Juke right.”
You hold on as the SUV’s tires bite into the Soviet-era concrete on the road, we swerve right, then left, then straight. Whatever the cars are doing, they’re now in our dust.
You notice you’ve been holding your breath.
You breathe.
Mussah.
Serenity Now.
You can’t help but smile.
The brakes lock for a moment and we all jerk forward as a child crosses in front. We’re stopped. Sitting ducks. On the left squats an Afghani man, wearing black. His body is turned away from us, but his eyes are watching us as he talks into a phone. Damned phones. What’s he saying? Got Milk? Got Eggs? Got Boom?
You jerk back as we accelerate again. You feel like the ass-end of a bullet in CERN’s Large Hadron Collidor. We jerk left. We jerk right. Accelerate. Slow. Accelerate again. You’re on the Afghan Fun Ride.
By now you’re giggling nervously.
“Car right.”
“Group of men on left.”
“Trash pile on left.”
“Motorcycle. See it?”
“Got it.”
You remember the movie Twister and their exclamation of cow as it flies by in the grasp of a tornado. You half expect for them to say that next.
Then we hit the traffic circle. Dear Great God of Roundabouts, what have you done?
It’s a traffic circle in geometry only. Cars and trucks and bikes and horses pulling carts go around it in both directions. They don’t yield. They don’t slow. It’s chaos and we’re going to die.
Only we don’t.
Tech Sergeant Crazy Eyes shoots through three scant openings, slips past a donkey cart, and next thing you know we’re roaring down another street, barely avoiding being T-boned by a bus. Like the Incredible Hulk through the eye of a needle, we somehow make it through.
“Car. Right.”
“Truck. Left.”
Accelerate to seventy miles per hour.
And finally, “cow!”
The SUV bites hard with the breaking in an effort to keep the haggard beast off our hood. We slide by, clipping its tail which snaps nattily back to remove a fly from a lazy eyelid.
Then the school children.
We stop.
Like emperor penguins they waddle across the road in their white and black school uniforms. What can we do? We can’t ram them. We can’t go around.
Suddenly you’re hyper aware of everything around you. You can feel the ticking of the engine like knocks on your heart.
A child laughs.
Another screams.
The sounds of their childhood are like heat rounds shooting towards you.
A car honks behind you.
“I don’t like this,” says Crazy Eyes.
You think to yourself, Fuck, if he’s worried then you should be too.
But the sergeant major calms you. “Easy now.”

Nickelback - Animals

Powered by mp3skull.com
As the music changes to Nickleback’s Animals, and you get to the line where the devil needs a ride, you see the children are gone, and you’re accelerating and the song might be about anything at all, even sex inside a car, but you don’t care because the beat matches the speed you’re going and the way the people and trees whip past the SUV makes you feel like you’re moving even faster. While your right hand is on the oh shit handle, your left is tapping to the beat on your left leg. You’re two parts of the same being. The right part of you is scared while the left isn’t.
You notice the increased presence of police in gray uniforms carrying AKs. You feel safe.
“See those guys with the AKs?” the Sergeant Major asks.
“Yes,” you say.
“They don’t like us. Watch out for them,” he says.
Watch out for them? Like now? Serously? Those police right there with the AKs?
Then we pass a building under construction. It’s going to be big whatever it is.
“They’re building a Hilton there,” the Sergeant Major says, playing tour guide.
“Shit’s going to get blowed the fuck up,” Crazy Eyes says channeling Nostradamus and Bobcat Gothwait.
You can’t help but laugh. Not at the idea of a hotel getting blown up. Never that. Instead, you’re laughing at the casualness such a thing can be called. Like when someone sees a professed redneck pouring moonshine onto a lit BBQ grill and saying, watch this. Doesn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out what’s going to happen. Or like when a hotel chain builds a hotel near the site of where the last one was destroyed and within 13 months of America pulling out of Afghanistan.
Shit’s going to get blowed the fuck up.
Fucking priceless.
“We’re here,” says Crazy Eyes.
Sergeant Major leans across the seat and turns to you. “Welcome to the Green Zone.”
You feel giddy. You feel sad. The ride is over. Part of you is happy and part of you wants to do it again. And part of you wants to fling open the car door and throw yourself to the ground thanking the Great God of Cannonball Runs that you’re shit didn’t get blowed up.
But then all those parts become one and you realize you’ve done something no one back home can every appreciate. No essay or book or story or late night yarn will ever be able to convey the sheer joy and fear you felt simultaneously. It’s something where you just have to be there to know. It’s something that you survive, and in the surviving, you become a part of the club that understands such things.

*   *   *

For more of my Afghanistan stories, click here for a list.

Also be sure to check out Gravitas, which is a free short story and audio story at NightMare Magazine for a limited time.

You're Being Deployed - The Journey Begins

As I sit here in a hotel waiting to take a jet plane to Afghanistan in eleven days, I can't help but think about those things that brought me here. The events that occurred to make this a reality. Thinking about it takes me back to the day I was voluntold. For the record: volunteeer + told = voluntold.

*   *   *
“You’re being deployed,” my boss said. Although he grinned, his eyes watched me closely. This was part of the game. How would someone react when they were told they were going off to war? How would I react.

“Sure I am.” I laughed and waited for a reciprocating laugh from my boss, or the deputy, but neither gave in. “Oh, you’re serious.” I looked from one man to the other and felt it for real. Fight or flight. My heart fluttered. My face might have even paled. A tsunami of concern broke in my stomach. This was Eleven Years Ago in a
Land Far Far Awayit. This was that moment. How would I react? How was I reacting? Whatever was happening to my body, my mind was flash-banging through a thousand images of war and fighting, both Hollywood and real. The dead stared back at me with as fierce a stare as those levied by John Wayne and my grandfather, waiting for my answer. It seemed as if minutes had passed since I’d realized I was actually being deployed. In this all volunteer military I was being voluntold to go to war. I could get out of it. I could make up some excuse. Hell, I could tell the truth. The Veteran’s Administration had already established that I was enough a disabled veteran that I was deserving money—as sort of monetary apology for fucking up my body. My mouth moved and the words came out, “Where are you sending me.”               
“Afghanistan,” my boss said.                
I realized only a moment had passed. If my face had revealed any of my internal ruminations, I couldn’t tell by looking at him.               
“Do you know where in Afghanistan?” I asked.               
“Don’t know.” He snatched a yellow sticky from his desk. “Call this number and they’ll fill you in.”              
As I took the paper, the phone rang. He answered it and I stood there awkwardly for a moment. I didn’t know if I was supposed to say something or not. Finally, tired of staring at the back of his head, I turned and left the office. I had a phone call to make. Check that. I had two phone calls to make. I had to call deployments branch and I also had to call my wife. After a moments consideration, I took the coward's way out and called deployments branch.
*   *   *

It's funny. As I look back on that moment, I wasn't scared. This was something I'd been wanting to do for so long. Twice before I was set to go and it was scuttled. I was beginning to feel like it was never meant to be. Then came the notification. Was I scared? Not the way you think. I wasn't scared for my life. I was scared for all the things I was going to miss. I was scared that something might happen in the life I'd constructed and I wouldn't be there to see it, to fix it, to be a part of it. This is the hardest thing to get over. It's a hard lesson to learn that life goes on without you. Once you get it, then everything falls into place.
I'm ready to go.
Let's get this party started.



A quick point and click list of my eBooks for all you eBook-o-philiacs! 
You have all of these, right?

SEAL Team 666 SMACKS into UK like a Rogue Planet

SEAL Team 666 was released in a new trade paperback-sized volume with a brand new cover in the UK. The first 48 hours found 10 media outlets interviewing me and reviewing the book. I've had books that didn't get that many reviews in 48 weeks. For sure, the book has hit the UK like a rogue planet. I can only hope there are enough people left alive to enjoy it.

Here's the rundown:


SF Signal Interview: We talk SEAL Team 666 and my favorite military novel of all time, Joe R. Haldeman's Forever War.

Curiosity of a Social Misfit Review: Says I raise the quality level in characterization.


Nerd Like You Interview: The nerds fawn over Blood Ocean and I talk about why I chose Humonculi as one of my opening monsters.

Nerd Like You Review: The nerds talk about my 'cinematic action sequences.'

Following the Nerd Review: These nerds call my monster mythology 'brilliant.'

The Examiner Review: Reporter Josef Hernandez hopes this will propel me into the mainstream and also begs Hollywood to come-a-knocking.

Alasdair Stuart's Blog: Critical Review and Analysis: Mr. Stuart provided in-depth literary analysis and calls SEAL Team 666 nuanced, smart and surprising.

Financial Times of London Review: James Lovegrove, acting as reporter instead of crack author, cheers the 'military-grade' ass whooping the monsters get in the book.

Geek Native: The geeks talk me into discussing magic on facebook, Godzilla, and a Vorpal Rifle of wounding. 

Now run out and get you a copy at your favorite UK or US bookstore. Or go to your favorite online bookseller. Come one. Keep me in rice and spam.

Joe Lansdale is my Hero and He Can Write Too

Joe R. Lansdale is my hero and that boy can write too. Some authors can just make words sing. Steinbeck can do it. Bradbury can do it. Haldeman can do it. And proclaimed Mojo Storyteller Lansdale can do it. Damn. Reading his words is like drinking an ice cold beer on a hot summer day after a couple hours of sex with your woman. You sitting on the porch, wind just tickling the hairs on your head enough to remind you that somewhere there's an ocean and your stuck the fuck here, but at least you got the beer and the day to keep your time, as long as some one worse off than you don't come and shove a pistol under your chin and blow you all to hell.

Just read Bullets and Fire, a short story written by Mojo Lansdale hisself.

Here's a quote from it made me laugh and smile and I read it four times.

The ones coming had weapons, all hand guns, and when they opened up the world went crazy and my ears went deaf and began to ring. And I don’t remember it all, but the bullets cut all around me and one went through my left arm and it hurt like hell, and the next thing I know it’s hanging at my side, and I got the Ak-47 lifted, pushed up against my hip, and I’m rockin’ and rollin’ and bodies are jumping. I’m having a better day than they are. Probably because they couldn't hit an elephant in the ass at ten paces with a tossed bar stool, even spraying. I’m like the luckiest motherfucker that ever squatted to shit over a pair of shoes, cause except for that one hit, I’m doing good. It’s like I was fucking charmed. 

Just keep the words coming, Mojo Joe!

This shit makes me want to write!

SEAL Team 666 Haiku

El Jeffe of Outrageistan dot com tweeted a Haiku review of SEAL Team 666.


SEALS fight the undeadStephen Hunter meets Buffyand dog eats demons
A Haiku is a very short form of Japanese poetry characterized by a 5-7-5 syllable structure.
Here was my reply to the review:
Nice SEAL HaikuIt pleased me to no endtheir little dog too
For the record, this is the first SEAL Team 666 Haiku.  
Thanks El Jeffe.
Now for the rest of you blokes. Do you have a Haiku in you?
Have Haiku in you?Send SEAL Team 666 verseto me for award
I haven't figured out what the award will be, but I'll think of something. Post them in the comments section of this posting along with whatever attribution you want. I'll keep this alive for about a week, then make a decision.
Now, get to it. 

Hate Mail for my Stoker Finalist Story

I never used to get hate mail. One of my stories has changed that. It's called RIGHTEOUS, appeared in the Black Dog and Leventhal anthology PSYCHOS, and is a final ballot nomination for the Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement in Short Fiction.

For those who haven't read the story, RIGHTEOUS is a story about PTSD. It's a story about a thing called Secondary PTSD. It's also a story about guilt, both shared and individual, both human and that of our nation. It's a story about America's love of war. It's also the idea that patriotism might be like alcoholism and too much of it might just be bad.

Here's a sampling of some of the emails I received, with my replies:

"You don't know what the f&ck your (sic) talking about. There's no excuse for your character's behaviour (sic). He's a f&tard!"

My reply: Well, actually, I do know what I'm talking about. I'm a retired army soldier with twenty years of service and am currently civil service employee working for the department of defense. I'm also deploying to Afghanistan next month. I get patriotism better than most. It's why I wrote the story.

"It saddens me that you've decided to join the lefties."

My reply: If by lefties, you mean those who see both sides of things, who take the time to think through things, and who are concerned with everyone's rights, then yes.

"How dare you trample the red, white and blue! You claim to be a soldier, but you couldn't have been. I was a soldier and am proud to show my flag and I'll kick anyone's ass who wants to try and stop me."

My reply: I never said anything about flying the flag. Thanks for your service.

"F&ck you F&ck you F&ck you F&ck you F&ck you! My brother died in Iraq."

My reply: Sorry for your loss.

"Your idea that a recruiter might be an accomplice to a soldier's ultimate sacrifice is distasteful. Everyone has a choice, whether to serve or not to serve. There isn't a draft, but rather a choice to join and become something you might not be able to become otherwise. Recruiters work long hours and should not be the target of anyone's anger."

My reply: The idea that there is a choice is a little sophistry. Many under-privileged and inner-city young men and women don't really have a choice but to join the service if they have any chance of pulling themselves out of poverty. I agree that recruiters work long hours  I have several friends, whom I respect tremendously, who are recruiters. But recruiters, like society, are (perhaps unwitting) accomplices to the deaths of America's children. As long as we promote the idea of patriotism at all costs, then this is what we grow.

The story was one I questioned writing. I stand by the story. I stand by what it says. I even stand by Mutt, the talking dog. I especially stand by the grieving father. God bless him.

Thanks to John Skipp for editing the Psychos anthology and for letting me be a part of it.

Tattoo Stories - Cowboy of Ra - Vampire Outlaw

I constantly get asked about my tattoos, especially the words inside of each forearm. People want to know what they mean, but the meaning goes deeper than the mere words. See, when my mom went to college in Sioux Falls, S.D. back in 1971-72, she came home and read to me the works she had to memorize. There was a particular poem that had a certain beat that I loved and begged her to read over and over.

Fast forward to 1998. I go to college and take a lit course and find this poem in my Norton anthology. I read it and immediately feel that I've found a familiar friend. I call up my mom and we talk and she tells me the above. I had totally forgotten.

What's interesting, is that this is an identity poem. It's about who you are and who you want to be. Reading the words, I realize I've become many of these. Through some form of osmosis, the words of the poem meant something to me. They actually made me. They formed who I am today

So enough of me. Let me present the poem in it's unaltered state.

One more thing. Ishmael Reed is from my hometown of Chattanooga, Tennessee, and currently resides and a professor at Berkley.



I Am a Cowboy in the Boat of Raby Ishmael Reed
'The devil must be forced to reveal any such physical evil
(potions, charms, fetishes, etc.) still outside the body
and these must be burned.' (Rituale Romanum, published
1947, endorsed by the coat-of-arms and introductory
letter from Francis cardinal Spellman)


I am a cowboy in the boat of Ra,
sidewinders in the saloons of fools
bit my forehead   like   O
the untrustworthiness of Egyptologists
who do not know their trips. Who was that
dog-faced man? they asked, the day I rode
from town.

School marms with halitosis cannot see
the Nefertiti fake chipped on the run by slick
germans, the hawk behind Sonny Rollins' head or
the ritual beard of his axe; a longhorn winding
its bells thru the Field of Reeds.

I am a cowboy in the boat of Ra. I bedded
down with Isis, Lady of the Boogaloo, dove
deep down in her horny, stuck up her Wells-Far-ago
in daring midday getaway. 'Start grabbing the
blue,' I said from top of my double crown.

I am a cowboy in the boat of Ra. Ezzard Charles
of the Chisholm Trail. Took up the bass but they
blew off my thumb. Alchemist in ringmanship but a
sucker for the right cross.

I am a cowboy in the boat of Ra. Vamoosed from
the temple i bide my time. The price on the wanted
poster was a-going down, outlaw alias copped my stance
and moody greenhorns were making me dance;
   while my mouth's
shooting iron got its chambers jammed.

I am a cowboy in the boat of Ra. Boning-up in
the ol' West i bide my time. You should see
me pick off these tin cans whippersnappers. I
write the motown long plays for the comeback of
Osiris. Make them up when stars stare at sleeping
steer out here near the campfire. Women arrive
on the backs of goats and throw themselves on
my Bowie.

I am a cowboy in the boat of Ra. Lord of the lash,
the Loup Garou Kid. Half breed son of Pisces and
Aquarius. I hold the souls of men in my pot. I do
the dirty boogie with scorpions. I make the bulls
keep still and was the first swinger to grape the taste.

I am a cowboy in his boat. Pope Joan of the
Ptah Ra. C/mere a minute willya doll?
Be a good girl and
bring me my Buffalo horn of black powder
bring me my headdress of black feathers
bring me my bones of Ju-Ju snake
go get my eyelids of red paint.
Hand me my shadow

I'm going into town after Set

I am a cowboy in the boat of Ra

look out Set   here i come Set
to get Set     to sunset Set
to unseat Set  to Set down Set

               usurper of the Royal couch
               imposter RAdio of Moses' bush
               party pooper O hater of dance
               vampire outlaw of the milky way