The Passing Of The American West

come here, scan the horizon.

its all coming this way, the red evening.

in dreams i have imagined some grassroots stand
a rise against, a burning down and a taking back
but in the same dreams great horse herds still bed
in grassy coulees without care and i know its a lie.
the taste is familiar as is the dream.

just ask billy the kid, certainly the taste of ancient lies
and unkempt promise fashioned by corporate pajeros
lingers in his mouth as well. he is still out there rolling
over in his desert grave ranting injustice to himself.

struck down by a familiar figure in a darkened bedroom
for a quick dollar and an example, the kid fell backwards
crying out Quien es! Quien es! from death’s rattle as fine
young women gathered around to comfort him in his passing.

i imagine my own fate mirroring that, though not as comfortable
or romantic or remembered. a bullet i catch a split second glance
of from the corner of my eye in the form of a shopping cart driven
by two large hispanic ladies while trying to cross the frozen t.v.
diner isle to checkout.

for a moment i note the coolness of the polished floor under me as
i gaze up at the fluorescent lighting and security cameras bleeding
out and i too cry Quien es! Whos there! Quien es la puta!

at dawns early light i had saddled up old cash with intent of reaching
at least the timber line. the same time of morning bulldozers are being
fired up and plans of rape and pillage are being discussed from golf carts
over cool early morning tee times by men in polo shirts on cellular phones.

you know, diesel truck – methamphetamine – construction site.

congratulating each other on another farm, pasture, shit splat piece of
sagebrush aside the great american freeway gone and in its place a
wonderful walmart or stripmall with plenty of space for lease or maybe
some more housing developments. tightly packed smug neighborhoods
on crime watch in your choice of stucco or vinyl siding.

i nervously watch this all take shape from my east facing window
or from rocky precipice with cash picketed to a tall pine in the distance
and i think of the american west, a mother to some, barely clinging to life
with the support of tubes and machines and again find myself reliving
the dream in my mind, the rise against, the burning down, the taking back,
the horse flesh lazing in the grass in the sun as a few young studs and
mares with foal at side remain on standing scanning the horizon
for possible threats. i can still see them.

Angel From On High

To make a character, hold your character in two clenched fists in front of your mouth, making an airtight vessel. Begin breathing just a little life into the poor bastard. Repeat as necessary.



The closing hymn for the days service was An Angel From On High. Brother Marriott reaches for the worn green cloth-bound hymn books sheathed on the back of the pew in front of him. The man turned the pages to the correct hymn and held the book in a manner which his son could also recite from and began to sing aloud - thoughtfully in 6/8 time at approximately 92 beats a minute as the hymn instructed.

An angel from on high
The long, long silence broke;
Descending from the sky,
These gracious words he spoke

Brother Marriott, losing his place for a moment with an unholy thought involving the sheer, shaven nubile lengths of shin seated across the isle from him. O! those pale lengths of modestly crossed legs that disappear into the great mystery under the bottom hem of a pastel cotton summer dress. What glorious scenes mine eyes behold he perhaps thought but only for a moment before restoring himself in god's house and continuing with reverence.

Sealed by Moroni’s hand,
It has for ages lain
To wait the Lord’s command,
From dust to speak again.
It shall again to light come forth
To usher in Christ’s reign on earth.

The Potato Patch

Whats he doing now? The rider, steadying his lathered horse spoke down to the man in the road.

What else? Hes picking gnat crap out of ground pepper said the dirty man kicking a wagon rut with his leathery boot minus laces. Been at it pretty near since he was born, his mama showed him how.

The rider spat and gazed out uneasily at the boy squatting in the potato patch. That, that aint right he said. That boy aint right.

It is what it is mister the man retorted hes my son and who are you to say?

The rider glared hard at the man but his eyes soon drifted back to the boy sitting in the plowed dirt singing along to himself the way children sometimes do. Well I had best be getting to the house, this horse is spent he spoke as he kicked the reluctant palomino, his eyes never straying from the little retarded, autistic bastard sitting cross-legged mumbling to himself.

Yeah, I expect you had better the man called out but the rider didnt answer, didnt even look back. With that the man wiped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his eroding shirt and reached for his shotgun leaned against a fence post and out of view. He let go with one barrel blasting the rider off the horse and into the tall yellow weeds on the roadside, the horse partially wounded labors down the road riderless.

Walking up to the rider and thumbing the other hammer back, he all but places the still smoking barrel in the riders left ear. The rider, doubled up and clutching his own entrails closes his eyes tight in anticipation. A loud report as blood and brain muck spatter the mans axle grease pant-legs. He looks over at the boy, oblivious to the commotion and most everything else for that matter. Grimacing the man breaks the action on the scatter gun and fingers another shell from the pockets of his grimy overalls and makes his way to the dirt where the boy sat.

The man looks down at the boy and smiles sympathetically. The boy sensing the mans presence looks up at him with blinking blue eyes, his fair locks gently picked up by the warm south breeze.

Look away the man instructs the boy and the kid heeds, returning to his own lost world once again. The man grimaces again as he levels the gun off.

The man turns without a word from the crumpled little life form face down in the dirt, nearly decapitated and scans the horizon. The niggers in the field across the rutted road had looked up from their sowing. Back to work! he yelled across.

Harvest

Rhet Oric, his eyesight failing him so badly that he's misplaced his glasses. God once commanded of Rhet to, without question, murder one of his two living sons, Eth and Path. Except that once the scythe was sharp and the days cannabis was swath he found himself hung in the decision of which boy to sacrifice to the almighty, not-so-specific pragmatist.

Rhet Oric, the antihero, without question he would use the scythe, the famed blade presented to his father's fathers by the father of time and great patron of harvest Cronus. The right tool for the grim job, the blade of harvest, but which soul to harvest? Path had always been a good boy, with minstrel and poetic colors, full of sympathy, imagination and triumph. The second living son, Eth, a fine horseman who's always shown good moral character, somewhat less pensive than his younger sibling. Eth never dabbled in the abyss whereas Path seemed to be the groundskeeper, always staring deep and welcoming in the beautiful sadness. Eth preferred debutant women whereas Path shown no obvious sexual preference, having always been one to taste of every fruit on the tree. This sometimes troubled Rhet Oric, kept him awake some nights and for a moment he'd made his decision, or the Lord's obscure decision.

Rhet really couldn't afford to gift away either of his progeny as there is much work to be done with flock and field. Who then would carry on his line, the lineage already but a trickle? He'd be as well off to waylay both lambs out of indecision as to deny God his unfeasible task . Damn indecision!

Strays

A mandolin and a guitar walk into a bar
stop me if you've heard this banjo before
Baby and I laugh from the backseat of a black antique Cadillac
forever and a day laughing and cutting up, just carrying on

I miss you so and can't wait to see your beautiful face again

Marriame

Preserved you in honey
Seven years, so beautiful

sleep without dream

i slept like a rock last night
nose pressed between your shoulders
bad fetal posture sleep without dream
revive me not i am happy
dormir sin sueño

Old Man

old man
i cant begin to explain
i get the feeling we are going to haunt the workplace
and there is always some impossible debt that is the price
but can you complain? yeah, i bet. but i cant for once
its worth it, so worth it
thank you

Ranchos Y Rios

RANCHES AND RIVERS

1. Yo estare allí antes de la proxima lagrima cae



Quien es la puta? she barked, her brown eyes looking down her short nose at him.

Nada. the man shrugged and pulled on his rattlesnake boots he'd just had resoled.

She picked up his leather jacket, whirling it once over head and slamming it down hard in his lap.

Quien es! Quien es!

Callate! Usted esta loco. He avoided her eyes as he hurried on his jacket and turned for the door. Por que no me crees?

Cagar! Quien es la puta! Que mentirosa! A donde vas?

Vender Cocaina. Donde si no? Comprar un rancho para usted.

Mentiras, siempre.

Ranchos y ríos mi reina

Jorge. she said Quien es la puta!

Justo una perra blanca. Para la venta. His eyes finally met hers. La chica americana otros murieron. La enterramos en concreto. Anoche.

Cristo! Vamos ahora y tomar la puta con usted. Me dicen nada de su negocio. No regrese con la nina! Cristo! Vamos!

He closed the door behind him softly, seconds later swiftly opening it again.

Olvida algo? She asked.

Me olvide Led Zeppelin. He put on his cowboy hat and bent down to kiss her. Y mi sombrero de vaquero. Dulces sueños mi corazón. Hasta la manana.