Hard wood dusted by glitter bombs
picking flowers a new breed comes.
Clean explosion of pink sparkles
lands all over dancing circles.
Petals with roots of vinyl boots,
urban dresses, and old school suits.
Double decades let’s mix ‘em up,
pour a vibe straight into that cup.
That stash of decaying perfume
fertilizes this mongrel bloom.
The freshy will always vanquish,
loud as hell spouting old anguish.
Nothing rallies a flimsy cause,
so we take control as outlaws.
Nobody does something for nothing
Everybody expects something in return
If he doesn’t receive the prize, he will snatch the land
If he gives you something, he quickly extends his left hand
To grab or pilfer something in return
It’s dark, please turn on the lantern
An eye for an eye, an eye for a nose
To tell the truth, my friends, nobody knows
What the heck is going on
Piracy is a fantastic weapon
No prize, no land
No money, no band
No oil, no freedom
No fun, no gum
No kiss, no honey
No hugs, no money
Everybody wants something in return
It’s nighttime, please light the lantern.
Copyright © January 2026 Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry collections.
The best artists are outlaws
Vandalizing our sanctity,
Our sanctimonious freight trains,
Our parsimonious neglect.
The best artists are culprits
Chiseling our school desks,
Scraping our bathroom stalls,
Doodling our notebooks.
Graffiti spray paints the struggle,
Scribbling defaces the pretense,
Defilement arrests the complacent,
Disfigurement sullies the platitude.
Defacers embody the dialectic,
The opposition to conformity,
The betrayal of uniformity,
The rebellion against authority.
The best artists are pariahs,
Trashing our temples,
Tossing out our moneychangers,
Driving out our shysters.
Historical Outlaws
What, are you talking about?
I am saying that we have a past.
It is full of guns, and law,
and law breakers.
It is full of heroes and villains
and homemakers.
We are America(s).
We stand up,
we do not sit down.
We kneel for God,
and rise to defeat
injustice.
The base of our life,
a collection of men,
full of ideas, for a better world.
One that would incorporate,
all people of the land,
America.
Freedom.
Your skin color
does not matter.
Your are not,
African,
Asian,
Indian,
Or Indian…
Irish or “white” (what ever that means)
The census calls.
Write down the truth.
Make it real, tell it to all.
You, yes you…
and you and you and you.
I am, we are, all of US…
The USA.
Citizens of a country,
That proclaims freedom
more important than death.
A length of knots makes crooked necks
That's bound by ropes to gallows
Tied by lore and judges hands
And braided by deeds of fellows
And though the graves of many knaves have gone unmarked with cruel intent
Their kin be sworn, with devils scorn
That they will not soon forget
Two is company
Three a crowd
A and B call the shots
I'll C my way out
I've become a nuisance
With the key to their heart
A knee high fence
Setting them apart
They clear with ease
The top of my Hurdle
I'm just a disease
A bothersome girdle
I gave them a boy
Adopted their man
Then a girl brought joy
They don't understand
They dote on the first
A monster in training
I have been cursed
No need for explaining
A fantasy solution
There's no such thing
Entitlement, illusion
They'll continue to bring
Pick a seat, not a side
A quant little quote
The author was high
When he joyfully wrote
An invisible line
Heavy and thick
Clear to the blind
A blunt, jarring kick
I won't sugar coat
My pen speaks truth
Start building your moat
And digging your boot
There is a bounty for our hearts Luv,
gold and fame for the flat riders who dare lower our flame
seeking to steal our fortune of raw carnal currency, our soul gold,
Love's law has decreed our passion a sedition against tradition,
a violation of virtue, a willful act of feral freedom, unauthorized love prize,
the old and ossified Judges are corrupt with dry eyes
the flesh upon which these laws are scribed suffers from necrosis,
they allege we are prisoners of passion
they say you are my **** of seduction
they assert I am your beast of brawn taboo
they know not that you are a rose of fire within my heart,
they fail to realize that I am your lion of lust and trust,
they squawk and hiss in their chambers of spoiled embers,
jealous and freezing from forgotten romance
what do they know of our embrace and fury,
When we cry for eachother, when we touch like none other,
when we come for one another, when we battle with scorching thunder
our love justice soars supreme, our only law, to love with rebel youth, to never surrender -
J.A.B.
WE WERE JUST KIDS WHEN WE STARTED OUR DESTINY,IN A WORLD GOING TO HELL.
WE BECAME WHAT WE WERE MEANT TO BE,WE NEVER COULD GO BACK TO WHAT WE WERE
BEFORE IT ALL BEGAN,WE HAD FRIENDS FOR COWARDS,KEPT TRYING TO TURN US IN FOR
MONEY,CAN'T YOU SEE THEY WERE NO GOOD AT ALL,WE WERE MEN IN A WORLD THAT
NEEDED OUTLAWS SO WE BECAME OUTLAWS ON THE RUN,I TOLD YOU WE WOULD BE
FAMOUS,JESSE CAN'T YOU SEE,WE SHARE THE NAME AND THE CAUSE,JESSE CAN'T YOU SEE
WE ARE FAMILY,OUR NAMES WILL LIVE ON THROUGH THE AGES,WE'LL NEVER BE
FORGOTTEN,CAUSE WE ARE OUTLAWS ON THE RUN
BY,
MICHAEL JAMES
Each day in Tombstone as tourists watch
The OK Corral gunfight plays out
Reenactments staged by the locals
The Earps always prevail in this bout
Saunter down to the Bird Cage Theater
Now a museum in this Old West town
Actors aren’t needed to play roles
The original cast is still around
Sixteen gunfights caused 26 deaths
Poker players who were dealt bad hands
Tourists still hear the shuffling of cards
And music from the piano man
Gunshots, images captured on tape
Dancehall girls still perform on the stage
Scents of old ale cling to dusty walls
And card game losers express their rage
Doc Holliday and Clanton Brothers
Look on as Wyatt holds all the cards
Virgil, Morgan glare at the McLaurys
Lawmen and outlaws send their regards
Spirits may rise from nearby Boot Hill
To visit the Bird Cage for a while
Delighting modern-day visitors
With a taste of history, Tombstone-style
To learn more about the Bird Cage Theater hauntings and see photos, visit http://www.ghost-
trackers.org/birdcage.htm
Justice has become a farce in the land of make believe
We were taught when we were kids never to deceive
Judges are appointed that even a snake would loath
They believe it is acceptable to tell lies under oath
Liberals and lawyers have destroyed the law somehow
We who believe in justice are the outlaws now
The criminals are living proof that crime actually does pay
While the law abiding person has his rights taken away
Poor man’s guilty and in prison he sits
Rich man gets paid for the crime he commits
Man is not judged by guilt or innocence
But by what he has in dollars and cents.
We who believe in fairness to all
We who will not answer to the rich man’s call
We who to corruption will not bow
We have become the outlaws now.
Come and sit here by the fire
Watch the flickering firelight
Let me touch your lips with mine
Will you keep me warm tonight
I've been here reminiscing
Just feeling kind of sad
Wondering why angels love outlaws
And all the times we had
We've been through Hell together
Feeling the pleasure and the pain
Stood side by side against the world
In the sunshine and the rain
Outlaws live their lives on the edge
Their castles built with sand
Why angels fall in love with them
It's hard to understand
So while we're sitting by this fire
And thinking of all the times you cried
This outlaw loves his angel
I want you forever by my side.
There was derelict old Steam engine,
I played on when I was ten,
I'd hear that lonesome whistle blow,
and the old west would live again,
I rode with Billy Miner's gang,
To rob The CPR,
Climbed onboard that rusty engine,
hollering "Shorty, check the baggage car!"
I wonder if the ghost of ol' Bill Miner,
ever watched us at our play,
Small boys re-enacting ,
a near forgotten day.
Forty years and more have passed...
I still hear that lonesome whistle blow
My pony snorts impatiently ,
She knows it's time to go.
"Pull up your masks and draw your pistols!"
We come around the engine at a run,
Three riders on fast horses,
flashing hooves and blazing gun.
That very same old engine,
I played on as a child,
Now hauls tourists back in time,
to when the West was wild.
Old railroad men and cowboys ,
re-enact a bygone day,
While the grinning ghost of Billy Miner,
watches us at play.
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