April 28, 2003

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  they wash it down with gin
  
  Tumbleweed rolls huge like Texas, ambling and bouncing away in a cloud of dust.  Rows of cacti form a worshipping chorus, prickly arms lifted high.  Just around the bend, a sandy road.  Follow it through rolling hills of desert and there you’ll find it nestled, a miner’s little town.  Purple mountains ominous rest quiet on a long stretch of horizon.  If you look toward the sun, it rises like a slow nosebleed, somewhere north of noon.

  
  

   

  
  

  Wagons hustle out the town square, eyes peering out beyond closed doors and cracks of smeary windows.  The wind blows with a swirl of minerals, kicking a haze into squinting sockets.  Sand hits wood and glass like the crinkle of a butcher wrapping dead steer.  Twinkling spurs spin with the gust and the tinkling sound is both quaint and fearful.  Two men stand bowlegged, staring hard from an empty space, marked forty paces.

  
  

   

  
  

  His hands are quick.  But his hands are quicker.  Grimy steel springs from the holster, western swords sprung from the scabbard.  All in the span of a half-blink and here’s when time stands still.

  
  

   

  
  

  So, I’ll shoot you and here’s a flash of light and burning smoke for proof.  One barrel points from the hip, a twitching trigger finger depressed slightly, subcutaneous fat dispersed gently over thinly curved metal.

  
  

   

  
  

  So, I’ll shoot you and here’s more bang for your money.  One barrel points at a man’s chest, somewhere just two inches above a badge.  Two degrees off the mark, two degrees amplify into ten at a distance.  If the Lord sees a sparrow, he sees a bullet punching through aimless air.

  
  

   

  
  

  In one set of eyes, a hellish pleasure mixed with tinges of tightly wound anxiety.  A thick Pringles moustache curls gracefully over thin, pursed lips.  Moreover, across the way, eyes bug wide in panic, mouth opened to a big O.

  
  

   

  
  

  Cracking echoes ripping into an airy vibrato, two men stand silent, unsure of everything.  The same old wind keeps on blowing and antsy eyes watch from the sides, moving from one man to the next and back.  He breaks a confused smile and falls to his knees, the first prayer of a bandit’s storied lifetime.  Everything becomes languid and muted, as he pulls off his ten-gallon and places it gingerly on the ground.  A new sensation, he thinks he’d like to pick a flower from this new vantage point, a daisy for an unfound love.

  
  

   

  
  

  He collapses forward and kisses dirt.  He sees an ant scurry by, a massive breadcrumb held aloft in its jaws.  Ah, with a sigh, all God’s work a beautiful analogy.  He sees the saloon doors, leather britches and boots hiding stupidly behind.  There’s the barber, cowering near the window, his balding head catching light.  The bordello girls stare scared, makeup melting. 

  
  

   

  
  

  Life is a game of poker and sometimes you pull the Ace of Spades. With a loud whoop, saliva and chaw hit the polished rim of a golden cupsidor.

  
  

   

  
  

  There’s a peculiar scent of lavender and honey.  An outlaw feels himself lifting, gathered in the strong arms of a most radiant angel.  His lamp is burning and he waits for the bridegroom.  A braving crowd gathers around him, a man who’s tasted just desserts.  Index finger and thumb form a gun and he points downward, a lazy smile across a grizzled face. 

  
  

   

  
  

  It’s a miner’s little town, soon a home for ghosts.  Nestled on roads to purple mountains ominous, a choragus of cacti wave a goodbye.  An out-of-tune piano plays campy ragtime and he’s a cowboy pushing through grace and space.

  
  

   

  
  

  ——————

  
  

   

  
  

  Accept that some days you’re the pigeon, and some days you’re the statue.
  (Unknown) 

  
  

   

  
  

  
  

  ————————

  
  

  

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

                                                             Winslow Homer – Crab Fishing

  
  

   

  
  

  ——————

  
  

   

  
  

  
  

  Our Friend the Atom

  
  

   

  
  

  Here’s proton: positive, you surmise

  
  

  Full of spunk, empty of wise.

  
  

   

  
  

  There sulks neutron, a nonplussed sort

  
  

  Dead weight to the total, ballast for tort.

  
  

   

  
  

  Fling away you electrons; you’re hurting my eyes

  
  

  Tango around like quick why’s and lies.

  
  

   

  
  

  Dancing elephants and falling buildings

  
  

  You’re all the same thing, just tiny dots

  
  

  Spinning.

  
  

   

  
  

  Two nights ago, I had the pleasure of bumping into Atom, quite an event. 

  
  

  Turns out he isn’t just one but three, an invisible trinity.

  
  

   

  
  

  Heaven is when

  
  

  They split. 

  
  

   

  
  

  The atom came ready, carrying his head high

  
  

  Soap to stand on and dreams to confide.

  
  

   

  
  

  ——————–

  
  

   

  
  

       

  
  

       Annnnnd they’re off!  <smile>

  
  

   

  
  

  —-

  
  

   

  
  

  Add:  Man, I do not like Howard Dean.  He just strikes me as an opportunist.  He’s got McCain’s straight shooting style but none of the charm.  And someone has to remind him that Vermont is a pretty small state (no knock on the state but he’s trying to translate his success there into something much bigger…).  His foreign policy is so outside the mainstream.  Come the primaries, the rest of the Dems are gonna unleash heck on the guy (they’ve been holding back on his barbs). Edwards and Kerry are noticeably irked (united in their distaste for the man).  He’s only giving fodder to the GOP…

  
  

   

  
  

  *finally fixed the Next 5 and Previous 5 links*

  
  

  
  

  
  

       

  
  

  Matt11:28

  • 7:47 am
  • 11 Comments