MACRAME LANDSCAPE
(Arizona)
The macrame landscape I keep hearing
about doesn't really exist. Neither do
the preachers of blight who keep their
mouths pealing. I live in an ancient
moment myself, and it doesn't allow
for their fodder.
-
Tending to blue, the open skies dither
too long before they dissolve to a solid.
Like a place, with a wall, with a door,
with a window : No difference there
to be spoken about. That's Reality,
and we're sort of stuck with it.
-
Ranch hands and dead Indians,
cowboys and mesquite cowboys,
cactus cocktails and deserts of wire.
That all comes down to nothing as
the desert winds start blowing and
the cattle start their bellow. Lowing?
-
Lariats and lassos, boots and chaps
and neckerchiefs too. Have you
ever figured, the 'last cowboy'
hasn't been born yet?
No comments:
Post a Comment