Gunslinger in a Tutu

1.

 

 

He rode into town on a steel dust mare

and the James gang,

killing time outside the dried goods store,

 

eased up the rims of their ten-gallon hats.

Even the ladies from Ma Fellowes

bawdy house ran,

 

in their pink and white negligees

and bunched-up hair, to the window so they

might glimpse the gunslinger in a tutu.

 

He hitched his mount

outside the half empty saloon, pushed

the old swing doors with just a cursory look.

 

They say the sky darkened then,

and a cold, raw silence dampened the air,

as if an angel of the lord,

 

or the devil of all mens’ dreams,

had appeared to walk amongst them.

It had been foretold in stories

 

that one day he would return -  

stories whispered by rustlers

on prairie hill.

 

Yet most held their tongues

out of fear or dread

that the truth of their lives was bound by a lie.

 

The townsfolk took to the square

like a gathering on a mount – the sheriff,

the blacksmith, the women of solemn virtue;

 

the widows and the poor and the hunted

and the damned; the well to do,

concerned for the sanctimony of their nature.

 

Only the occasional shallow breath,

sloughed deep with superstition,

echoed the valley’s breeze

 

as it brushed the cut grey stone.

For they could not understand

this sign, this vision of discontent,

 

this test of their faith handed

down from on high. Had Lucifer risen ?

(yes, they believed in such things).

 

Was the end time playing tricks

with their dogged beliefs ? The fathers

of the church ushered the children inside,

 

locked the shuttered door

to God’s blessed house;

for they knew as sure as the cross

 

that hung above them,

the consequences of a gunslinger in a tutu

riding into town.

 

‘If we are to be judged,

then strip us of all judgement. If our faith

is to be twisted, let the world see it clean.’

 

The pastor said these words to his solemn

congregation, and the whisky on his breath

tasted bitter as bile.

 

 

 

2.

 

 

The jink of the gunslinger’s spurs

caught the old timers off guard – those proud boys

who spent their days in this no-good two-cent saloon.

 

Their cards had been dealt, their palms laid flat

on the table, as he strode across the hay strewn boards

and stood at the lonely bar.

 

The honky-tonk was silenced

as a new-found concession - an act of contrition

that might save them all;

 

for the proud boys knew well their time

was up as they waited for the stranger

to reveal his hand.

 

The bartender set down a bottle and a glass;

the gunslinger offered

a coin in exchange.

 

He locked his grey green eyes

on the mirror’s reflection, poured

the fiery liquor and quietly drank his fill.

 

He was a man who lived alone,

wild and untamed, beyond the parson’s reach,

beyond the tales of eternal virtue,

 

who sat before a modest fire,

let nature take its course, easy in his skin

before the snow-brushed mountain’s shadow.

 

The gunslinger drank; and he was easy

on the eye – a fine figure to see,

even the proud boys would admit.

 

Strong armed; broad-shouldered;

sculpted by high winds; long tanned legs set

within boots of Spanish leather.

 

So when the James gang tumbled in

they were met by silence

and a rank heavy air

 

infused with mystery and unfamiliar passions

that swirled like a biblical mist

in narrow-gauged minds.

 

They stood chewing their cud

(what else were they to do ?) their eyes lost

in hatred, willing the stranger to reach for his gun.

 

But the gunslinger played it cool – stood and drank

his fill, watched their nervous reflections

as he supped the last of his liquor.

 

He set down a coin for the service

he’d received; turned towards the old swing door

and made his final move.

 

His spurs began to sing as he walked

the dusty boards - walked with a swagger

towards those who barred his way.

 

The proud boys caught their breath

as the hero passed before them

the myth of him resounding in the day’s failing light –

 

a savage, brittle light that had obscured

justice and mercy within folk starved of freedom

for so very long.

 

The full breadth of his stature towered above them all -

a decadent god in all his majesty to see.

(Were they embarrassed now by the prejudice

 

and hate of their convictions ? Or frightened

of the gunslinger’s pink taffeta skirt ?)

The James gang parted - a nervous broiling sea;

 

and the gunslinger in a tutu

went keenly on his way.

A gasp could be heard as he emerged

 

from the saloon, from the ladies at Ma Fellowes

and the women of fine virtue.

A strange kind of rapture

 

took hold of the little town; even the parson

rejoiced that the world spun on its axis still.

Only the James gang were left

 

chasing their tails like angry racoons –

confused by the mist scurries

imploding in their minds.

 

A legend of exaltation rode into the sunset.

His time was brief, his presence everlasting.

Sleep had been shaken from bitter, doggone eyes.