Friday, March 4, 2011
Small wild roses on marked cards:
the horizon is red dust sunlight falling on cattle.
A hard jade girl sings,
Mangy dog, you're mine,
steps into a yellow summer dress.
The barber shop has been closed
as long as the grocery store.
You are discussing mistakes
located in the Bible,
staring out an airplane window
at the snowy Wasatch Range.
Earlier there was a museum
to wander through: golden deer bones
sheathed in condoms, tied with red ribbons.
The new rodeo queen uses three kinds
of dandruff shampoo to keep on top of flaking.
She calls herself a sweet apple pie with a bruised spot.
Much, much earlier than all of this,
having fortified himself with Jack Daniels,
the school's vice principal taped up
hallway signs: Stamp Out Suicide.
Behind the abandoned grocery store,
past the need-repair train tracks,
beyond the crumbling statue
of a pioneer horseman....
A horizon of marked cards
settles dark as a Wild West memory.
You are flying, white knuckle flying.