The Outlaw

The outlaw

Romancing the West,
And seducing the Myth;
He’s fast with his gun,
This no man’s son,
He’s a homeless rider,
And a meandering liar,

He goes much as he comes,
Affecting a slow talk and a drawl walk.

Through the day and through the night,
Through the sun and through the fire,
He harbors his deep and dire desire
to tempt fate to bite.

He carries nothing but bullets and tobacco
And spits them both.
He sees death in the one-horse towns
And plague in the cities.
He’s quick to shoot
And quick to loose.
He will bare his neck
For the hangman’s noose.

What he told the wind, he tells them:
His comforts were a ground warmed by a dying fire,
A beaten tip cup filled with stolen coffee grounds,
The smoke of his cigarette drifting above him
Like forgotten smoke signals,
Halos of the West.

He remembers in his heart a quietude
That echoed the thick night
Just beyond his fire’s feeble light.

He remembers the lone coyote call.
An answer to his soft whistle.
Strangers in the night and Brothers of the desert life.

He tells them he
Hailed down myriad stars
Which left upon him
Myriad scars.

He tells them
In the lines of his palms
The lay of the land
And his life in a span

Through the iron bars he sees the sun surrender
Its last purple-red band to wallowing night
And stoops to brush the dust from his boots.
His silence reins the protracted dark.
His eyes reflect the thin, seeping dawn.

In the tilt of his hat
There is defiance.
In the slope of his shoulders
There is defeat

A forgotten fornicator, a gunned-down gunner,
He knows the last refuge is distant and unaware
Of another lonesome man on the brink of the precipice,
Watching the day
And the land
Stretch ever long before him.