^{'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

If I were to live my life
in catfish forms
in scaffolds of skin and whiskers
at the bottom of a pond
and you were to come by
   one evening
when the moon was shining
down into my dark home
and stand there at the edge
   of my affection
and think, “It’s beautiful
here by this pond. I wish
   somebody loved me,”
I’d love you and be your catfish
friend and drive such lonely
thoughts from your mind
and suddenly you would be
   at peace,
and ask yourself, “I wonder
if there are any catfish
in this pond? It seems like
a perfect place for them.”

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

He's supposed to call his doctor, but for now he's the May King with his own Maypole.
He's hallelujah. He's glory hole. The world has more women than he can shake a stick
at. The world is his brickbat, no conscience to prick at, all of us Germans he can ich
lieber dich at. He's Dick and Jane. He's Citizen Kane. He's Bob Dole.
He's Peter the Great. He's a czar. He's a clown car with an extra car.
Funiculi, Funicula. He's an organ donor. He works pro boner. He's folderol.
He's fiddlesticks. He's the light left on at Motel 6. He's free-for-alls.
He's Viagra Falls. He's bangers and mash. He's balderdash. He's a wanker.
He's got his own anchor. He's whack-a-doodle. King Canoodle. He's a pirate, Long John
Silver, walking his own plank. He has science to thank. He's in like Flynn. He's Gunga Din,
holding his breath, cock of the walk through the valley of the shadow of death. He's Icarus,
hickory dickorous, the mouse run up the clock. He's shock and awe. He's Arkansas.
He's the package, the deal, the Good Housekeeping Seal. He's Johnson and Johnson.
He's a god now, the talk of the town. He's got no place to go but down.

Sometimes I picture your face on money. 

But this isn’t Rome, where they know
what money’s worth, which is almost 

the paper it’s printed on (a kind of art), 

and where I stared what seemed eternity
into a guidebook, lost, side-skipping

pigeon past, motorbikes, and swarms 

of gypsy tykes excavating the ruins
of tourists’ pockets, until I stumbled

onto the Temple of the Golden Arches-

McDonald’s!- and across the piazza, 
the Pantheon.... Inside, third niche left, 

alone a moment with the Ossa et cineres

of Raphael, I thought of you; “put it all
in the poem” was your advice so, okay, 

here you are! – among the camcorders, 

cell phones, retired gods, and a pair of
kings – rumpled, broke, and amused 

as you were the Green Mountain morning

you asked: among us who was writing 
for posterity?, and one of us knew. Bill, 

I haven’t paid you your due, but need

another favor: could you please undie
so I can buy you the glass of good

rosso in the Eternal City I owe you? 



               William Matthews, poet and teacher (1942 – 1997) 

I

Slim Greer went to heaven;
  St. Peter said, “Slim,
You been a right good boy.”
  An’ he winked at him.

    “You been travelin’ rascal
      In yo’day.
    You kin roam once mo’;
      Den you come to stay.

“Put dese wings on yo’ shoulders,
  An’ save yo’ feet.”
Slim grin, and he speak up,
  “Thankye, Pete.”

    Den Peter say, “Go
      To Hell an’ see,
    All dat is doing, and
      Report to me.

“Be sure to remember
  How everything go.”
Slim say, “I be seein’ yuh
  On de late watch, bo.”

    Slim got to cavortin’
      Swell as you choose,
    Like Lindy in de Spirit
      Of St. Louis Blues.

He flew an’ he flew,
  Till at last he hit
A hangar wid de sign readin’
  DIS IS IT.

    Den he parked his wings,
      An’ strolled aroun’,
    Gittin’ used to his feet
      On de solid ground.

II

Big bloodhound came aroarin’
  Like Niagry Falls,
Sicked on by white devils
  In overhalls.

Now Slim warn’t scared
  Cross my heart, it’s a fac’,
An de dog went on a bayin’
  Some po’ devil’s track.

    Den Slim saw a mansion
      An’ walked right in;
    De Devil looked up
      Wid a sickly grin.

“Suttingly didn’t look
  Fo’ you, Mr. Greer,
How it happens you comes
  To visit here?”

    Slim say—“Oh, jes’ thought
      I’d drop by a spell.”
    “Feel at home, seh, an’ here’s
      De keys to hell.”

Den he took Slim around
  An’ showed him people
Rasin’ hell as high as
  De first Church Steeple.

    Lots of folks fightin’
      At de roulette wheel,
    Like old Rampart Street,
      Or leastwise Beale.

Showed him bawdy houses
  An’ cabarets,
Slim thought of New Orleans
  An’ Memphis days.

    Each devil was busy
      Wid a devlish broad,
    An’ Slim cried, “Lawdy,
      Lawd, Lawd, Lawd.”

Took him in a room
  Where Slim see
De preacher wid a brownskin
  On each knee.

    Showed him giant stills,
      Going everywhere,
    Wid a passel of devils
      Stretched dead drunk there.

Den he took him to de furnace
  Dat some devils was firing,
Hot as Hell, an’ Slim start
  A mean presspirin’.

    White devils with pitchforks
      Threw black devils on,
    Slim thought he’d better
      Be gittin’ along.

An' he says—“Dis makes
  Me think of home—
Vicksburg, Little Rock, Jackson,
  Waco and Rome.”

    Den de devil gave Slim
      De big Ha-Ha;
    An’ turned into a cracker,
      Wid a sheriff's star.

Slim ran fo’ his wings,
  Lit out from de groun’
Hauled it back to St. Peter,
  Safety boun’.

III

    St. Peter said, “Well,
      You got back quick.
    How’s de devil?  An’ what’s
      His latest trick?”

An’ Slim Say, “Peter,
  I really cain’t tell,
The place was Dixie
  That I took for hell.”

    Then Peter say, “you must
      Be crazy, I vow,
    Where’n hell dja think Hell was,
      Anyhow?

“Git on back to de yearth,
  Cause I got de fear,
You’se a leetle too dumb,
  Fo’ to stay up here. . .”