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!

If you find me dead in the field,
Prop me up by the nearest tree,
Place my hat in my lap,
And face me west,
So my soul can leave with the sunset,
And my boots can finally have a reprieve.

I’m busy as a bus.
Ten hours on the telephone, research resources,
school staff, counsel clients.
Some sleep.
Then invite Lorraine downtown, the lovely loyal
secretary, to hear jammin jazz crew. By taxi tonight,
sans subway.
I’ve never been to this joint before
but admire the women in their dresses and makeup.
In New York, they smell wild. Elsewhere
women are ranchers and gardeners.
We find a small table in the crowd,
order drinks. The band is four young black men.
Lorraine is black too, by the by.
We get up to dance and I leave my cowboy boots
under the table. I’ve always enjoyed
the way Lorraine puts her arms around me.
I’m the oldest cat in the club
which is frightening
since just fifteen years ago I was the youngest.
I wink at the trumpet player with my fairly abandoned mien
who comes over to our table between sets.
He likes Lorraine. They jukebox it.
She falls in love.

Nothing is sweeter
than waking
to the silence
of snow
of the movements
your chest makes
before the closed-eye smile
stirs
the ancient Woman in me.
I crawl into your arms
like stepping
into the sunshine abyss
of my childhood
like conjuring
the music
of my sister’s laugh
like conjuring
the dead.
Some mornings
I wake
so full of love
that it takes all of my
strength
to keep my chest
from hallowing
my ribs from cracking.
At 6 a.m.
on a
snow-covered lawn
the revelation
of love
accompanies a cigarette
and cup of
watered-down coffee.
All of the words
you whisper
my porch cowboy
are stuck to me
on a morning
so unaware
of its own
beauty.

He fancies himself a cowboy
In line at the corner store
Concealed carry snug on his hip
(He secretly hopes someone gives him some lip)
The cashier hands him his change without meeting his gaze
He’s surprised and aroused.
She knows her place.

Selling your soul’s not a deal with the devil
Selling your soul is a deal with yourself
Make the choice over and over
To shake your own hand
And pretend that it’s somebody else

He fancies himself a nonconformist.
A free thinker
The sheep will all do what they’re told
And he’ll be ****** before he goes peacefully to slaughter.
It was easy, he figured it out
Demanding proof is just an excuse to hide behind doubt
A warrior,
he wields the flaming sword of truth
His wife asks a question; he breaks her front tooth.

Selling your soul’s not a deal with the devil
Selling your soul is a deal with yourself
Make the choice over and over
To shake your own hand
And pretend that it’s somebody else

Somewhere a fat man is checking the math as he’s being served lunch
Picking through numbers, looking for nibbles
He dribbles drool onto his chin,
as he dials his guy in The Caymans
His stomach is rumbling, it’s never enough!
To deepen ones pockets, one first must make cuts.

The determinant cause for the silver mine fire
Will read “Accident: faulty electrical wire; Company denies liability
per signed agreement at hire.”
And the cowboy free thinker won’t laugh at the joke,
he’ll just choke
There will be no survivors

But today, The Cowboy nurses his hate,
while Somewhere a fat man is writing the fate of the cowboy in pen,
pleased to be Great Again.

Selling your soul’s not a deal with the devil
Selling your soul is a deal with yourself
Make the choice over and over
To shake your own hand
And pretend that it’s somebody else