Crankshaft stroller

Almost four years ago, I found myself stumbling in and out of a
lonely outpost--A crank-nosed little shit who was hell-bent on
chainsmoking the American Dream: Drugs, Sex, and Rock and Rolling out
of the bed before morning, and sobriety, slammed in.

Cannon, my compadre-in-crime, snickered underneath his breath as he
hoovered yet another road-side rail. (Only Houdini had performed more
awe-inspiring disappearing acts.) "Carnegie-fuckin'-Oklahoma", he
muttered with a Freddy Mercury waft of his hand.

"Carnegie-fuckin'-Oklahoma"

I'd smoked my mind the night before, babbling on and on about the Kiowa
princess pounding ancient passions through my skull--Beaded
moccasins--the smooth leather of her skirt as thirsty thighs found
solace upon my lap....I can still see those earthen putty eyes, now
bloodshot with the scalding image of my cocky smirk emblazoned upon
each 4AM croup-coated hack out into the night--my seed--her
willingness--our ecstasy--her burden--my irresponsibility...our
child

...And now...after trails of time and tears...where do we go from here?
(You, no doubt, wincing that there ever WAS a "we".)

Mama, will there ever exist a moment where we can lay our guns in the
ground? I grow so weary of this spitfire song.