Won't You Come See Me, Queen Jane?

The following piece comes from the tragic murder of my twin cousins in 1971. They were taken from us by their socalled friend, Herman Biersdorf, who himself spent some minor time in prison for this act. Lately, June of 2009, several people have come to this blog, looking for information on this tragic act. I invite them to email me at tosburn@msn.com with any questions they may have. I can't offer too much in information, but I would be interested in their involvement in this long ago act that lives in my family to this day. I remember going to family reunions in Oklahoma long ago and seeing that large family tree with the lop-offed limb bearing their names. I remember them well. Most of my childhood was spent going to see them or having them come up to Wichita to see us.




We were at their house when I first played
Highway 61 Revisited.
We had gone to Enid for that weekend and
I bought the album at my uncle's record
store, at a steep discount. My brother
and I always played hearts with
Larry and Leslie. That's what we did
at their house.

Larry was the joker who never won.
My brother Greg, the con artist card shark
who always had the cards.
I was two years older than the three of them.
But I lost, mostly. Leslie could play
like a sonafabitch, I should mention.

I never could tell them apart.
Identical twins, and not like Patty Duke on tv.
They played football, electric guitar,
and drums. They won national merit scholarships
to Rice, in Houston. Real, all round dudes
who were letting their hair get long.
It was 1970.

My mother called me, I remember,
and told me they were dead. And I wept
there, in my kitchen in Laclede Town, central
St. Louis, while my wife, Becky, hugged me,
not knowing what was going on.

It took me hours to get ahold of my
brother and sister in St. Louis. My brother
at Washington U., my sister teaching
at Forest Park Community College.

I just kept listening to the rings,
counting them, smoking dope to stay calm.

Greg went to dinner when his suitemate
told him I was calling all afternoon. He
figured it was bad news, so he went
to dinner. And the first thing my sister
said, was "is it daddy?"

This guy who did it, Herman Biersdorf
(what a dingbat name, what a loser name,
no wonder he was fucked up), Herman
turned himself in the next day.
He said he wanted to do what was right.

What was right, asshole?

They were the best of friends.
Worked together.
Had some fun.
Were gonna save the world.
It was the sixties, man.

But it didn't work out.
The twins, my cousins, my friends,
were going back to Enid, partially
to get away from Herman, the genius
boy. He tried to talk them
out of this new plan. But
they betrayed him, in his mind.
They knew they needed to get away.
So he shot them in the head
and now

my dreams are nightmares, my friends
are gone, my days are numbered. I know
my own death. Does Herman know his?

He actually tried to buy all the plots
around their graves, in Enid. So when he
dies he can be with them. What a dork.
What a loser. Put my rotting flesh
in that hole. That'll give me back
my love. Fuck you Herman.

And I've got Larry's boots on now.
Like a pair of aces, man these are good boots.
And Greg, he won't talk about Larry and Leslie
with me. Something passed out of our life
when they were taken. We don't talk
to this day.

My Aunt Betty, the one true xtian I know
(maybe along with my sister Diane)
told me to take one of their records
when we went to the funeral and I
picked out Leslie's copy of
Highway 61, Revisited...

Revisited.
But I can't bring myself to play it.


Thanksgiving of 1971. My twin cousins, Larry and Leslie Owens, identical twins, brilliant boys, good guys in every aspect, were murdered by their friend when they were supposed to be seeing Pete Townshend and company in Houston, before leaving to return to their home in Enid, Oklahoma, after dropping out of their second year at Rice University. This reverberates in my family to this day. I will never forget that terrible weekend in Oklahoma. Everything that could go wrong, did. I didn't even get to stay for the funeral because I worked for the postal service and they wouldn't cut me the slack, because my cousins weren't close enough relatives to let me go. At that time the post office treated most of its employees in St. Louis as if they were in high school, complete with demerits. I saw the dark face of bureacracy then. To say that I never got over this experience is to really understate it. My oldest daughter is named "Lesley" Paige, because of my friend Leslie Owens. I can sit here, now, 36 years later and be shaken by the fact that I will never see those guys again. That really really sucks. Herman, who got out of prison some years ago, I hope you understand that you will be required to deal with all of this when you pass over. And where you have buried your pitiful mortal remains won't make any difference. You will have to explain to them why you thought it was your right to take away their entire lives. They would both have children in college now. The circle would be unbroken. I would like to thank the Lady for making these memories sharp and clear. For making the faces of my friends appear in my mind as they were the night we watched "Little Shop of Horrors" (the Nicholson one) on the cots in their family room in 1964. I miss you guys. I miss my brother Greg, too. He's a sad figure these days. Not that I am a bouquet of roses, myself.