Thursday, September 17, 2009

'Twas the night before BCMF

Sing a song of six-gun,

a pocket full of hair.

If you hope to survive the night,

you'd better learn to swear:

"Play some fuckin' country!"

and scam another pie --

most of us have done this before.

The Guns have done it thrice.

Gather round us kiddos,

we'll keep you safe and warm;

slide the strings of a Telecaster guitar

and mind the swinging arms.

1 comment:

Jaime said...

{Is This for Me?}

At 4 AM your time, you call me a whore.
I am asleep in my saddle
at Dead Horse Point
seduced by exposure
and the Colorado;
the rolling plumes of dust
like children's hands when they tell a story.

You should behave,
possibly in Texas,
or ask that girl to dance—
breath heart-heavy hard as clay
and hips watered down for
underage patrons.

So swear and swing your saloon doors.
The smell of linseed oil
on the flat of your hand
like a fucking man.

While I watch the sky inside—
my mind can’t dream on its back—
of comets and mustangs
and boots worn to lovers and
a swallow of Beam the depth
of the canyon that keeps me
from water.

But I can’t leave.

You said you wrote something for me
and left it here.