“I oft be a cowboy when
Moments such as this
Relapse.
The bitter stench,
The sour curl,
And cradled in my own arms
I lie.
I oft dream of San Antone
Of melting sunsets with ivory scraplets upon
A distant sky,
Not mine,
Not mine.
I cannot bear to see it.
Not mine,
Not mine,
Never to be mine.”
So I say this, to you, my love.
My distant and eternal
Friend.
I am saddened by my wishes,
The begging
That I make for a life of cattle prod and sandstorm.
To see the dust of a hoof,
The crack of a splinter,
And the rolling of a hill far greater than my self.
I oft claim to be a man of sanity, a stable gentleman within myself,
But in this confessional I wish to express, that no true self,
Is better expressed than this.
“I am crawling,”
I claim.
“I am crawling when all else about me is walking, running, sprinting, flying.”
So, to you, my
Only friend,
Believe me and listen!
Listen!
I am begging for you to hear me!
I am telling you of my pains and
Harms.
My endless, endless, dreamings.
My desires to be caressed against saloon seating,
Doppled spangler draped across my belt,
And a spur twinkling like new crushed glass ready to kick, cut, and
Slice.
I pray to be a ranger, a rider, a soldier, a
Thing.
An specific thing,
An specific some.
An specific a.
I want be an a,
A referral put against by historians as midst the best of man’s creations.
An
Inspiration.
I dream of collapse of
An unfinished bounty,
A gunfight deeply lost,
Never able to redeem.
Of pores of
Blood
and desecration
Seep out of me against the bleached shoals of Nevada, Arizona, Utah, New Mexico,
Not here.
I will beg and beg again,
“I crave a death not able to me!”
One of jovial cantina florets,
The strum of a guitar and a song
Unlike most songs
Made for me, my exploits, and
you.
A song
A song that will tell of my exploits and ridings
A song that the patrons crackle and spark with, its rhythms a
Love
To my own self, the self that rides.
A song that shares my journeys and killings,
That speaks of me not as I had been but as I yearn to be.
A journeyman.
A soul half against the law and half against himself,
The winds of El Paso, Santa Fe, Amarillo,
Burning against my back,
My face dashed onwards to my claimed glories.
Streamed sunlight abound and blessings now granted,
My instruments of equine,
Colt,
And Wesson now holy.
Shall opulent rays dance ripe with crimson,
As sorrowful mother’s rest
Indiscriminate
Naught a care for man
Nor beast
Nor devil
Nor self
Myself reborn
A weapon made for peace
And peace, for all, I weaponize.
Do you not hear me lover?
Do you not understand my yearnings?
My want?
My need?
My death?
To be a cowboy?
For I cannot stand longer.
My horse is figment, my pistol myth,
My belt a creation, my whip a prayer,
My boots a shame, my heart a deception,
My sands a god, my sunsets a past,
And you,
A charity.
Yet I am not a cowboy
Nor whilst I chance to be
As now I’ve cruxed to scream it on
That “I am merely me”.
–Jorge Biaggi