rocky raccoon
           cowboy in the
dust of somewhere / nowhere
                                        leaning
into a quicksilver sunset,
hands tied in twisted
ropecords, each knot
a secret no one knows

who
        pulls the trigger?
hands, trembling
                like the last bird
that fell from sky
                splayed wide—flesh    
and bone paint the prairie
                                    /flawed
with the stain of not being fast enough
but this
             is cowboy's life
no slowness in
                the click
of a gun /
                    but the final breath
          like wind
                           whistling
     through bonechamber
     between ribs—an afterthought.

        (the sheriff's a ghost, a thin rope
of smoke, and eyes are just
               holes drilled into glass)
      all /time/hangs
                 in moments—      
                                            lassoed
     by a mind that only
         remembers scars

rocky’s fingers curl, twitch
            (don't you move just
       let it happen, let it happen,
   you know it’ll fade—)
                       breath is a yellow
    fading light
         pushing past
                     skin /skin
                                       skin

the rope (too thick)
                  slices
        into a body that doesn't belong
anywhere,
                         just in that second
when he knew
                time bends and
                            falls
like dust back into dust

the howl of wind,
               the grind of
                          bullet
                (aimed but missed
because nothing
          sticks around long enough)
                       hangs in that
                   empty sky
                            and what was
                             done, undone.

if death speaks,
                         it's just
                       another song
that nobody
  quite understands  
                           yet
as the raccoon cowboy
               swings

                                         there

Steady hooves. Northbound.
Soft shadows breaking away.
My hat! No. Onward!

Where could it be?
Where is this taking me?
My hopes are anything but high.
My ink for poetry is running dry.
Where is my one horse running off to?
Where exactly is the end of the rainbow?
I keep searching and screaming for it.
I keep yearning and yelling for this.
Still, it could be me and you.
Still, despite the shades of blue.
The last nugget of gold that I will rush to.
The last star that's burning in the metro.
This city ain't big enough for both of us,
but your room might just be.
There ain't room for both of us in this town,
but in my bed there might just be.

But do you know that all of these takes time?
That you simply can't just wake up good?
That this is one thing you can't do online?
That this is more than wearing boots?
But do you know how much time is mine?
That you might wanna share perhaps?
But do you know how long must I ride?
Before you enter the arena and do laps?
But do you know that all of these takes time?
That even the greatest cowboy can fall?
That if you think it could be anywhere,
could it possibly be on my bed or hall?
Do you know that it takes hell of a practice?
But then if it's the art of cantering,
my body is but one masterpiece,
you are a renaissance artist.
But if a horse is poetry in motion,
your legs writes classic novels
I don't wish to ever end.
And if this little tryst is all but a play,
then we better make it worthwhile
do it best more than a playwright.

The more I ride, the more he fades away
and the more he blurs when it's a rainy day.
The more I trot, the less he catches on
and the lesser he gets my prized attention.
Because the more we run on the field,
the more I breathe, live and feel.
Because the more we canter out and about,
the less I feel the worries, fears and doubts.
But you are the vast lands that I will uphold,
you are the range of mountains with golds.
You are the trail that the champions follow,
you are where families will bloom and grow.
You are my Olympus and achilles' heel,
he's just the dirt on my boots.
You are my final will and death hill,
he's just another old saloon.

So Long, Cowboy
Red earth painted on your sun-kissed face
Marked the shadow of a veil
And the rim of your Stetson worn out

Was I really that mean to you?
To leave you in the dust
So that my sneakers feel the dry embrace of cracked pavement?

You walked to me barefoot at sundown
The fire outlining the silhouette of your ribs
In The Garden of Saint Paul’s Hospital

Your thin bones
Toothy smile
Fixed gaze

I’ll send you a postcard
You send me your love

I should've known from the first ride,
that I would be falling fast.
I should've felt it from my first fall,
that your show must go on.
I should've known from the first rodeo,
that should've been the last.
I should've felt it from my first trot,
that I'm better off riding alone.

I should've known you couldn't choke the horn,
but you were all but a yellow-belly.
I should've watched how you 'let her rip',
yet a horse is all of my riches.
I should've believed you don't want no cahoot,
but I rode for you 'til dawn while hungry.
I should've watched you ride to the sunrise,
yet I am left chasing sunsets.

But I am still the greatest,
with or without a lily liver cahoot.
I am the best, from east to west,
a taste from my lips would prove it's true.
I am the lone star that shines the brightest,
with or without your hat on, you'll be blinded.
I am all of the gold that they all rush to,
the legend they call 'light at the end of the tunnel'.

You should be sorry, oh you should be sad,
all you would be is a runaway robber.
Because I could've been your brokeback god
now I would be everything but your lover.
I put my hat down to say sorry for being your bandit,
Now I ride to where the lights would welcome me,
far away from all the grime, dirt and strife
They all cheer and whistle and holler my name,
while you weep that your whole life,
let alone your morning rides will never be the same.

cowboys without
mustaches are just dusty
illiterates. yeehaw!