My Acid Cowboy

Elephant hustle.

Born and bred.

A sidler cowhand of strobe light cities and dusk pickups.

Then 9 blinks of his sky blue eye during 3 seconds of coffee.

Also little things like not remembering basic shit, what we said, agreed on.

I could just see something was happening.

In fielding all manner of fixing the wrong, I mention a word.

In his mind, a load-bearing kind of scaffolding collapses.

He bolts, boots on the ground, fist hole in the adobe drywall, a tight slamming of his snug vehicle door.

Poof, 2 years of co-dreaming spinster-purse snatched.

He’s spinning affordable 4X4 rubber and my gut is sinking.

He’s shooting up long, wispy contrails of dirt road dust. Ejecting it in such a manner that it would endow visual acceleration to that Broncho should it ever be rendered as a photograph.

But 40 miles an hour isn’t the sexiest truth to tell.

Far better to consider it frozen in angry velocities — than fluid and lame.

Lame since the reasons were hard-wrapped weaved like desperate, ingrown potted plant roots: lack-minded, blaming themselves, not comprehending their urgent need for better space.

Lame since the reasons were not fully disclosed, and severely penalizing.

I’m figuring his personality was lion-share inverted into a collection of rickety image managements: a derelict home finally falling into itself.

Having little choice but to unremain.

… … …

It’s much better to remember my acid cowboy as earnestly punkrock and conflict horny.

And I reworked it now to where he’s just decided to flow like grass blades: ripped up and sent into the wind.

That he just picks up and leaves like a basic man would.

Born to run.