if sweetwater
was the living
embodiment of
a brown crayon
marshall must
be where the
green got spilled
resulting in the
of west texas
with little to
do and nowhere to
be on a day when
the words feel
hollow i left my
cave to go explore

perhaps i have
seen too many of
these little towns
as they bleed in
on one another
lower class being
lower class despite
the state logo at
bottom of the
foreclosure order

an hour out of
the dour metroplex
i found myself
surrounded by tall
trees in chaotic rows
the highway clearly
an unwelcome intrusion
of the conifer covered
land interwoven by
asphalt lines filled
with semis headed
to lousiana and i
am far from home
as i take the back
roads and see how
far the rot has sunk
into the countryside

if you close your eyes
you can feel the
sway of the saddle
as you lazily ride
back to your farmstead
the easy weight of
the revolver on your
hip as no motion
escapes your gaze
you don’t even need
to hikd the reins
your mare knows the
way to sweet oats in
a her nice little stall

maybe i romanticize
texas because besides
long drives my dad
instilled a love of
the old westerns and
our vagabond souls
always seem happiest
with open road ahead
and our demons lurking
closer than they
may appear behind us
so a little dissociation
among a fool and his
stuffed beezelbub is
probably quite normal
and i have a bounty
on my head in the
next three counties
for cheating at cards
and robbing a train


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