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.