My son told me that I had a worse singing voice
than Neil Young, Bob Dylan, Townes Van Zandt and John Prine
all combined.
I just smiled and said "Thank you, son".

r

Texas Rangers' pointed stars he wore
as rowels on the shank of his spurs with pride.
The holes in the center punched with squint not
scowls and his .45 Colt Peacemaker true and tried.
Nothing personal against the Rangers,
they just didn't understand.
They chased him for the killing of strangers
whose whiskey tempers forced his hand.
He wore their stars upon his spurs not as a prize
for his skill in killing two of Texas' best,
but for their courage and their pride.
Now he spends his last years in Mexico
with his back to the wall and Peacemaker
on his side.
Playing poker, stealing tequila drunken
outlaws gold.
Eights and Aces they always stand.
An outlaw by default
never again to cross the Rio Grande.

r

He was baptized in whiskey
and gunsmoke aroma
Took up with a Cherokee woman
Quite friskey
Down in the Territory of Oklahoma
Tired of one too many killings
He took his side iron off
Wrapped it in its holster folded
Inside a gun oiled rag
Replaced it with his Mother's Bible
From within his saddle bag
Listened to that smart Indian woman
Who said he'd hung around the Territory
Too long
And if we don't skeedaddle
You'll be hangin' longer than you want
Smartest woman he'd ever known
She'd heard there's no law or religion
West of the Pecos and beyond
So they headed out to Texas
To preach the gospel to outlaws
****** and poor Mexican Catholics
Wrote off the Oklahoma Territory Baptists
Whose thick hides hide drunken sinners
Ridin' hard and fast her buckskin skirt
Above her thighs
Ridin' with a winner
Dark hair flowing behind
Ridin' hard to in his sight keep her
Such beauty that could stir the
***** and mind
Of even an old saddle preacher

r

The fear of love
Dreading the aftermath
You can't predict

r

I’ve finally broken the arrow…
left the reservation..
as the sayings go.
Not without some hesitation…
not without some reservations..
I’m going to walk the White Man’s road.

Broken arrows from my quiver…
left behind like White Man’s litter..
all along this dusty road.
The road that follows the river…
where I use to play and shiver..
catching fish without a pole.

I’ll stop one more time by the water…
wash away the tears and dust and sorrow..
break my bow upon a boulder.
My people have lost their way…
nothing left for me to say..
cut my hair above my shoulder.

I’ll follow the White Man’s way…
Maybe Albuquerque or Santa  Fe..
only my dusty boots will know the way.
Broken arrows from my quiver…
left behind like White Man’s litter..
all along this dusty road.

r  August 2012