One from Barbarian and Two from Tio Zuco

Lonely in the Crowd
(Dime Note Blues)

I can hear the roar of laughter That comes pouring out the door And I’m standing by the lamppost Then head in for what’s in store
Well, the smoke smells like a shroud And the music is way too loud
And I can see you’re

Lonely in the Crowd

The bad booze blends with the blues And the bouncer looks so bored
So you take a chance with a smile and a dance And hope it’s one you can afford
Now there’s a time for preservation And a time you can be proud
And there’s phony pleasures all around you And you still

Lonely in the Crowd

There’s the ringing of the register All the greed has turned to gold Pay your dues to corner derbys And glitter girls who turn to mold For outside your trip is waiting And the fog feels like a shroud And you look as if you’re

Lonely in the Crowd

Now the ticket-selling jive studs Clean their whistles in the rain And you pray what you just paid for

Does not mingle with the pain But the fortune teller told you That tonight you’d be a cloud Though is still feels

Lonely in the Crowd

The night magician sits in the corner Casting fish eyes at your show
With the stain of card receivers And his helmet full of snow
With his pockets lined in whispers That his victims scream out loud Still the shivers in the shadows Melt so

Lonely in the Crowd

Above the clinking of the glasses There’s a rumor being spread About the power of the dollar
While down the alley you’re being led And your unseen friend the merchant Dishonors gestures that he vowed And he winks behind his eyepatch
As he collects the

Lonely in the Crowd

Then the ending comes in flashes Lightning blades that stink of blood The final thunder of dots and dashes As they loosen away the flood
And on the sidewalk all the winos
And the whores stand with heads bowed And silently look as if they are

Lonely in the Crowd

From a
Barred Window Revisited

There was a double murder trial going on in the courtroom upstairs. A group of vatos were doing time and were bored and didn’t even have a drink. Sometimes a friend would bring us a flat of wine or even a couple of quarts of beer through a rear window.

Upstairs in the courtroom the people were quiet and solemn. Suddenly there was a piercing squeal like a pig being grabbed by a big cat. It was my friend Rocky Octavo who could imitate a pig exactly. It was the middle of July and it was very hot so the court house windows were open and the court was directly above the jail. Well, every body started laughing their ass off and the judge couldn’t control them – banging his gavel, yelling “Oder in the court”. The jury had tears running down their cheeks; even the murderer was rolling on the floor. So the judge who dressed badly and was an illiterate puke ordered the cops to come down to the jail and kick our ass. But when the cops came down we were all asleep. So after a while when things had settled down Rocky again started squealing like a pig and the shit started all over again.

Tio Zuco’s 24-hr. Barred Window
Joint Sales
and Emporium

Me and my friends were doing a little time. Some judge, who smelled of deodorant and was a bald-headed chicken fucker with no front teeth, had given us two weeks for some nonsense.

In jail was a trusty – just a kid who was very green and who had a room to himself and was mostly free to come and go. One afternoon, all the cops were gone, and he was searching around and had found an evidence drawer full of marijuana, and he didn’t know what it was. He showed me a small amount and I told him to get me more and tell no one. Later, a brother came to the window and I told him to bring me cigarette papers and spread the word that I was holding some bad shit.

There had been a bank heist a month before, and when a posse had been chasing the robbers, they had stumbled on a marijuana plantation. The evidence shelf was just a flimsy affair, easily opened. My friend was back in a flash with another guy with bread. I started selling joints through my newly opened walk-up window. I employed everybody: my two friends, rolling joints; my trusty buddy, bringing me handfuls of grass; and me, dealing with the kitties at the window. I made a killing with my grass and bought friends and fellow inmates groceries and smokes.

And my new friend, the trusty, was my friend for life. The whole town had been completely dry and now everybody was humming high and my trusty friend and I were rolling in bread. What can I say? I’m here to help.

(My friend, the trusty, went on to own a limousine service and any time I would visit his city, he would drive me around everywhere.)

When I got out of jail, I bought a couple of six-packs, and when I got home my cousin Louie had just arrived from another town. We had a couple of beers and then he had to visit a friend. He had a lovely chick with him – the kind of chick when you say hello is stuck for an answer – but she had the biggest puppies you ever saw. So Louie says, “Here, Tio, have a whore.” Now I ask you, how many brothers can give you a beautiful whore when you’re fresh out of jail?

But, alas, my friends, your Tio Zuco’s tale does not end well.

(I’ve been waiting my whole life to use the word “alas” even though I don’t know what the blue-eyed fuck it means.)

Anyway, after enjoying my friend Louie’s gift and doing the diddle bop all night like young doggies, I’m feeling great. A couple of days later I’m walking down he street when suddenly I feel a giant bite on my nuts – the bitch had given me some lousy lice. But I was appreciative because they were imported – having come all the way from Sacramento. My good friend Louie had also mentioned the antidote.

He said if you ever get the crabs, you should get a double shot of whiskey and a handful of sand. First you dump the whiskey on your groin, then wait a little while and pour on the sand, and when the crabs get drunk they stone each other to death. Or another way is to shave half your pubic hair, then pour a little gasoline on the hairy side and set it on fire and when the chatos run from the forest fire you stab the blood-thirsty mother-fuckers with an ice pick.

These things were also special in another way – they were shaped like little Volkswagens and had very hard shells. I would shoot them with a .22 Derringer and the bullets would just ricochet off.

Remember, a vato loco is tempered slowly by fire and rain, even though I once heard a guy boast that when he was born he came out with a joint in one hand and a switchblade in the other, but I find that a little hard to believe.

Lady luck is a fickle bitch, ain’t she? Beware of glitter girls who turn to mold.

Please pray for your Tio Zuco and his mission in life.