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How much can one fan of OKOM (Our Kind Of Music) accomplish in just a couple of years? Plenty, if it's Rockzilla, aka photographer Michael Johnson. From 2003 to 2005, rockzilla.net was a chronicle of the alt.country scene from a uniquely Texan perspective. But all good things must end, and Rockzilla has retired from the online 'zine scene.

This mirror site was copied from the rockzilla.net site with the express permission of Rockzilla hisself. If you don't believe me, go to the KHYI-Fans email list and ask him! Buddy will back me up, too.


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Poems by RB Morris

Live and Not Lern

There was a time when the gods walked the earth
At least in Fort Sanders
When the mockingbird was king
And there was fresh dew on the ruins
Naked in the Fort they sat on porches
Or spied themselves from sidewalks
Passing freely from one body to another
They became whoever
They could disappear at the top of the stairs
They could walk down the middle of the street
They could be naked with their clothes on
Maybe that's what made them gods
Or birds or angels
As they became everything
And every voice

Of course, the gods didn't care
That's the trouble with angels
You never know what they're thinking
They get on your nerves
They bring the tail out in you
You never know what you got
Until you're dead

And from a lonely hill of old houses
They reached out to Africa to Hollywood
To Emerald City
From a spot on the lung
To a spot on the sun
They reached out and became human
They became soldier boys and rock stars
Carnies and body bags and merry-go-rounds
Whores and ambassadors and French monkeys
Conversationalists
A few suicides, a few Lucifers
A few went straight to heaven
On cracks of light in wedding songs
But there they were, going home alone

Afterwards, others came
Plugging into systems better
Bringing home more headlines
But that doesn't matter
That doesn't mean shit except to shit-heads
The earth had been rolled and walked upon
The thought had been thought
A song was sung and was echoing yet
If only they had known
They were alive

Everyone was shocked at the death of mockingbird
Even the ones who pulled the trigger
Long buried now beneath older ruins
Somewhere in the Highland Forest
Deep beneath the laurels
Now it's only a myth, as they say
No one even believes that gods could walk
Or talk, much less sing in trees
Or on porches or in your dreams
All of a sudden everybody's a scientist

Still, those lost anthems come to us
As we doze in the daze of hazy seasons
Or whistle absently past gnarled magnolias
On the way to the beer store
Or glimpse the aura of certain houses
As people come and go

©RB Morris.

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