Lonesome Cowboy

I wanted to be a lonesome cowboy

like the old man and those old old men

   who came before.

I wanted to sit tall, proud, announce

myself with a magnificent overture

of silence and fear. That’s right, mister – silence and fear.

After all, isn't that what marks a lonesome cowboy from

   the rest ?

 

 

I wanted to wear a lonesome star pinned

tight against my heart. Those sharp bright edges, man

   I'd make them shine -

pay homage to my sacred line, honour that great

pantheon of lonesome ideas - silver symbol of my

lonesome aesthetic, along with my broad hat,

embroidered boots, surly look, rattle-spurs

   and gun.

 

 

Ah yes, my gun - that most important lonesome prop.

You see, a cowboy loves his gun, sat flush against

   his thigh -

ivory-handled, arbiter of the final word,

smooth and deadly, finger primed – oh so sweet virtuous explosion

of smoke and intent.  And no need to worry, lady:

only bad guys fall. All necessary evil put to rest here

   between the eyes.

 

 

Now ask me: where did things go wrong ? Can I recall when

my lonesome dream died ? Something deep, I guess,

   unfathomable; moments, ideas that didn’t seem to fit –

that heavy lasso rope well-made for the swinging. I couldn’t do what

lonesome cowboys did, couldn’t talk the way they talked;

couldn’t ride alone for days in a dusty wilderness

of my own making, shedding anger about the way things

   were supposed to be.

 

 

You see, mister, you need something – something I don’t possess.

An overriding emotion: hatred and despair to push you

   on your way.

Dreams aren’t enough:  flickers on a silver screen.

Lonesome emotions consume, tear the flesh of innocence right off your back.

Riding the barren night with cold blood on my hands, sad blink

of a condemned man’s eye branded onto my brain. No, mister, that wasn’t 

   my idea of liberty and justice.

 

 

You see, I stepped out of my lonesome clothes, grew back my hair,

wore an old ragged shirt that had seen better days, took myself to the

   icy lip of the lake

cupped bare-beaten hands, washed myself down real good, emerged from that

wilderness a cleaner spirit – brighter than any well-rubbed star.

I wanted to be a lonesome cowboy. I rode out, mister and turned on my heels,

   blinded by dark.