Texas Outlaw Poet, Jeff Callaway, performs a set of poetry set to psychedelic, reggae, and blues music provided by Andrew Stone for TEXAS NORML on Earth Day, April 22, 2011, at the United States Art Authority, near the Spider House, at 2906 Fruth St., in Austin, Texas. He was among a long list of poets, comics, and bands that performed, including Clyde & Clem’s Whiskey Business, Samuel Caldwell’s Revenge, & Sip Sip. The event began at 6 PM and continued until 2 AM. Tickets were $15 at the door and $10 for current TX NORML members. Happy to see all of you who were there!!! GO GREEN!!!




Texas NORML Mixer Event, featuring:

Samuel Caldwell’s Revenge – http://www.reverbnation.com/samuelcaldwellsrevenge

Chris Corsbie – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NssFdba1MPQ

Dan Cioper – http://www.reverbnation.com/dancioper

Rhett Lee – http://www.rhettlee.com/

Better Halves (formerly Jiminy Crisket) – http://www.jiminycrisket.com/

One Step Program – http://www.facebook.com/pages/One-Step-Program/153460054667963

Mutant Press – http://www.mutantpress.com/

Jim Patton & Sherry Brokus – http://www.facebook.com/pages/Jim-Patton-Sherry-Brokus/46090559671

Jitterbug Vipers – http://www.reverbnation.com/thejitterbugvipers

King Kohn – http://www.reverbnation.com/kingkohn

Ky Hote – http://www.kyhote.com/

Aciable – http://www.facebook.com/people/Aciable-Austin/100000508961898

Sugar Bayou – http://www.sugarbayouband.com/

Much Love – http://www.muchlovemusic.com/

SubKulture Patriots – http://www.reverbnation.com/subkulturepatriots

Sip Sip – http://www.myspace.com/wesipsip

Ill Faded – http://www.facebook.com/pages/ill-Faded/38900522848

Clyde and Clem’s Whiskey Business – http://clydeandclemswhiskeybusiness.com/


Kat Ramzinski – http://www.myspace.com/kramzinski


Paul Bullock “America’s Pot Poet” – http://www.paulbullock.com/

Jeff Callaway “Texas’ Outlaw Poet” – http://cedarcreekpoet.blogspot.com/

Gideon the Mighty Warrior – poet

Michael Aaron Casares – http://www.carcinogenicpoetry.com/2010/06/michael-aaron-casares-one-poem.html

Brian Roberts – http://www.brianjroberts.com/


Jeff Callaway

Texas Outlaw Poet









Texas Outlaw Press presents a Texas Outlaw Poet picture by Jeff Callaway based upon his poem of the same name a celebration of movement. All acting and narration by Jeff Callaway. Music by DJ Smack. Follow Texas Outlaw Poet, Jeff Callaway, at http://www.texasoutlawpoet.com!


Watch on YouTube:




POEM W/ MUSIC (audio)




TEXAS OUTLAW POET ARTSPACE by Jeff Callaway on display daily, and well hung up at the 211 Gallery in the cultural epicenter of East Texas…Athens, TX! Multimedia renderings of beer bottles and such are perfect for any bar, pool hall, or man-cave! Paintings in all sizes, ranging from $25 and up! Come on down and take a gander at them in person whenever gallery hours allow!

Buy a shirt to spread the word! Part of proceeds donated to marijuana legalization efforts in Texas!

ABOUT THIS CAMPAIGN: We hope these stylish tee’s will help bring awareness to the efforts and services available through Texas Outlaw Press & Texas Outlaw Poet (www.texasoutlawpoet.com), as well as help raise funds for groups and organizations like ourselves who are fighting to bring justice through legalization of marijuana in Texas, as well as the world!

OUR MISSION: Texas Outlaw Press was founded when my good friend Jeff Callaway was sent to prison for the non-violent offense of possession of psilocybin mushrooms. Together …we founded the Press to publish chapbooks for readings both while Jeff was in and when he got out of the penitentiary system. The legacy of our inception is our on-going interest in working with artist who have had to suffer the indignities and injustices of the hypocritical drug laws in Texas and the U.S. In the coming years we hope to shape the Press into a helpful resource for artists trapped in the Texas prison system for non-violent drug possession. We are also interested in collaborating with Texas’s artist and political communities to bring further awareness to the injustices of Marijuana Prohibition and the harms to people’s lives caused by incarcerating non-violent drug offenders. Ultimately we would like to help educate citizens and voters about the negative consequences of current drug laws and the benefits of treatment vs. incarceration in regards to serious addiction issues. At the same time we’d like to offer a rewarding forum for self-expression to those negatively impacted by those laws and to our readers and listeners. -John-Paxton Gremillion (Co-Founder)

Click here to buy a comfy TEXAS OUTLAW PRESS T-Shirt!


We each of us have a good “alibi”
For being down here in the “joint”;
But few of them really are justified
If you get right down to the point.

You’ve heard of a woman’s “glory”
Being spent on a “downright cur,”
Still you can’t always judge the story
As true, being told by her.

As long as I’ve stayed on this “island,”
And heard “confidence tales” from each “gal,”
Only one seemed interesting and truthful —
The story of “Suicide Sal.”

Now “Sal” was a gal of rare beauty,
Though her features were coarse and tough;
She never once faltered from duty
To play on the “up and up.”

“Sal” told me this tale on the evening
Before she was turned out “free,”
And I’ll do my best to relate it
Just as she told it to me:

I was born on a ranch in Wyoming;
Not treated like Helen of Troy;
I was taught that “rods were rulers”
And “ranked” as a greasy cowboy.”

Then I left my old home for the city
To play in its mad dizzy whirl,
Not knowing how little of pity
It holds for a country girl.

There I fell for “the line” of a “henchman,”
A “professional killer” from “Chi”;
I couldn’t help loving him madly;
For him even now I would die.

One year we were desperately happy;
Our “ill gotten gains” we spent free;
I was taught the ways of the “underworld”;
Jack was just like a “god” to me.

I got on the “F.B.A.” payroll
To get the “inside lay” of the “job”;
The bank was “turning big money”!
It looked like a “cinch” for the “mob.”

Eighty grand without even a “rumble” —
Jack was last with the “loot” in the door,
When the “teller” dead-aimed a revolver
From where they forced him to lie on the floor.

I knew I had only a moment —
He would surely get Jack as he ran;
So I “staged” a “big fade out” beside him
And knocked the forty-five out of his hand.

They “rapped me down big” at the station,
And informed me that I’d get the blame
For the “dramatic stunt” pulled on the “teller”
Looked to them too much like a “game.”

The “police” called it a “frame-up,”
Said it was an “inside job,”
But I steadily denied any knowledge
Or dealings with “underworld mobs.”

The “gang” hired a couple of lawyers,
The best “fixers” in any man’s town,
But it takes more than lawyers and money
When Uncle Sam starts “shaking you down.”

I was charged as a “scion of gangland”
And tried for my wages of sin;
The “dirty dozen” found me guilty —
From five to fifty years in the pen.

I took the “rap” like good people,
And never one “squawk” did I make.
Jake “dropped himself” on the promise
That we make a “sensational break.”

Well, to shorten a sad lengthy story,
Five years have gone over my head
Without even so much as a letter–
At first I thought he was dead.

But not long ago I discovered
From a gal in the joint named Lyle,
That Jack and his “moll” had “got over”
And were living in true “gangster style.”

If he had returned to me sometime,
Though he hadn’t a cent to give,
I’d forget all this hell that he’s caused me,
And love him as long as I live.

But there’s no chance of his ever coming,
For he and his moll have no fears
But that I will die in this prison,
Or “flatten” this fifty years.

Tomorrow I’ll be on the “outside”
And I’ll “drop myself” on it today;
I’ll “bump ’em” if they give me the “hotsquat”
On this island out here in the bay…

The iron doors swung wide next morning
For a gruesome woman of waste,
Who at last had a chance to “fix it,”
Murder showed in her cynical face.

Not long ago I read in the paper
That a gal on the East Side got “hot,”
And when the smoke finally retreated
Two of gangdom were found “on the spot.”

It related the colorful story
of a “jilted gangster gal.”
Two days later, a “sub-gun” ended
The story of “Suicide Sal.”

— Bonnie Parker

Bonnie Parker wrote two poems while she and Clyde Barrow were on the run from the law. This poem, the Story of Suicide Sal, was the first of the two. (The second poem is, The Story Of Bonnie & Clyde, or The Trail’s End.) Bonnie wrote this poem while she was held in the Kaufman jail in spring 1932. The poem was published in newspapers after it was found during the raid on Bonnie and Clyde’s hideout in Joplin, Missouri on April 13, 1933.



You’ve read the story of Jesse James
of how he lived and died.
If you’re still in need;
of something to read,
here’s the story of Bonnie and Clyde.

Now Bonnie and Clyde are the Barrow gang
I’m sure you all have read.
how they rob and steal;
and those who squeal,
are usually found dying or dead.

There’s lots of untruths to these write-ups;
they’re not as ruthless as that.
their nature is raw;
they hate all the law,
the stool pidgeons, spotters and rats.

They call them cold-blooded killers
they say they are heartless and mean.
But I say this with pride
that I once knew Clyde,
when he was honest and upright and clean.

But the law fooled around;
kept taking him down,
and locking him up in a cell.
Till he said to me;
“I’ll never be free,
so I’ll meet a few of them in hell”

The road was so dimly lighted
there were no highway signs to guide.
But they made up their minds;
if all roads were blind,
they wouldn’t give up till they died.

The road gets dimmer and dimmer
sometimes you can hardly see.
But it’s fight man to man
and do all you can,
for they know they can never be free.

From heart-break some people have suffered
from weariness some people have died.
But take it all in all;
our troubles are small,
till we get like Bonnie and Clyde.

If a policeman is killed in Dallas
and they have no clue or guide.
If they can’t find a fiend,
they just wipe their slate clean
and hang it on Bonnie and Clyde.

There’s two crimes committed in America
not accredited to the Barrow mob.
They had no hand;
in the kidnap demand,
nor the Kansas City Depot job.

A newsboy once said to his buddy;
“I wish old Clyde would get jumped.
In these awfull hard times;
we’d make a few dimes,
if five or six cops would get bumped”

The police haven’t got the report yet
but Clyde called me up today.
He said,”Don’t start any fights;
we aren’t working nights,
we’re joining the NRA.”

From Irving to West Dallas viaduct
is known as the Great Divide.
Where the women are kin;
and the men are men,
and they won’t “stool” on Bonnie and Clyde.

If they try to act like citizens
and rent them a nice little flat.
About the third night;
they’re invited to fight,
by a sub-gun’s rat-tat-tat.

They don’t think they’re too smart or desperate
they know that the law always wins.
They’ve been shot at before;
but they do not ignore,
that death is the wages of sin.

Some day they’ll go down together
they’ll bury them side by side.
To few it’ll be grief,
to the law a relief
but it’s death for Bonnie and Clyde.






in a lonesome
hotel room in Paris, Texas
in exile from all that i love
apart from all that has left me drunk
staring into a Rusty Wallace Commemorative Can
of Miller Light as i begin to realize
how i’ve wasted precious time on sour desserts
like how much a gram of methamphetamine is worth
instead of how much the Dixie Chicks might love
a Texas Poet

and now it’s satori in Paris, Texas and i know it
because two roads have diverged in the woods
but only one can be chosen
and one left behind

after my woman done left me and my dog done died
and in the Texas penitentiary i spent some time
after i lost my house and my car and my mind
and finally i realize that i’ve wasted my time
on a monkey on my back that’s chasing a white line

and now this satori in Paris, Texas is mine
and not Jack Kerouac’s

so i drink down a tall can of Pabst and i swallow hard
and try to forget my book of blues and Big Sur sorrows
and how i almost lost my book of dreams
and my visions of Girard and Cody
to a silver spoon syringe sorority
and now my Maggie Cassidy wont even talk to me

so i need to kick soon or i’ll be kicked
when i find a final fifty-thick fix too thick

before i get to see my sweet baby sister again
or tell her and my Mom and Dad i love them again
or finally find me the house, the wife and two kids
or just get drunk at the club with my closest friends
or write more Texas Outlaw Press chapbooks to print
or i enter my poem in the poetry contest and win
or i get to travel the world and see other continents
satori is i refuse to be another fading trend
satori is to save my poetic life of sin
so that finally my hypodermic battle will end
and my new life can begin

then my triumphant return to Austin, Texas
can be penned…

© Jeff Callaway 2005

Click here to buy SATORI IN PARIS, TEXAS by Jeff Callaway on Amazon!


move this flesh

this soul at rest

this flesh unwed

this flesh utterly



this flesh twice fed

and put to bed…


this weary worded unwinding of flesh…


this once or twice or thrice at best…


see me now at my best, so take me…


this binding of life and love

this leisure like hour

this school of thought

this principal of adhesion…

let’s soak it all in, let’s live deep from within…


let’s become

let’s get some sun

all in good fun

accept me for who I am

catch my drift

catch me falling off a cliff

you are the reason that I exist

the flesh is the key…


the adamant Atlantic

to the west I say in purest form

purest form, nature

the unbounded sea all bounced

unbound these curling waves

with their tongue to the beach

in the kiss of the tide…


old moon rising and falling

all sad song said and done

all to where these words become

this love of flesh and bones and words

this love to you with heart like doves

to you for whom this heart does yearn

this love does seeketh thee…


and finds me and flies and moves me…


moves the waves, moves this unlimited sea

uninhibited moves me, moves these…


fractions of time in rhyme with the time

in eternity…


move this rhyme, rearrange these lines

it’s the sign of the times and no I’m not fine

I’m moved…

© Jeff Callaway 2005

Click here to buy A PECK OF PICKLED POEMS by Jeff Callaway!