Finally, another poem. OMG!

My Western, II

The Outlaw Josey Wales. Grace, Idaho.
Red-tailed hawks. A black eye on a girl
hiding behind the corral. A Lady Takes a

Chance. Trip-wires for horses. War paint,
eye shadow. A Fistful of Dollars. Cow-
boy hats reeking of smoke and spoiled pork.

Mule deer. Mud Lake, Idaho. Highways
looping over themselves, empty drive-ins.
Coyote brush. Broken stirrups. Bitter

Springs, Arizona. Cigarettes staining the
ceiling of his trailer, his teeth. Pale Rider.
B.B. guns, hand guns, shot guns. Guns with

the serial numbers filed off. Appaloosa.
Star-nosed moles. Robbing the grocery store,
your father’s restaurant. Raccoons. Copper

Beeches. Yellow dust on your tongue, in
the corner of your eye. A Man Called Horse.
Apache, Comanche. Star sedge. A drunk man

singing in the outhouse. A drunk man singing
by the fire. 6 Black Horses. Saguaro cactus.
Condor shadows the size of sinking boats. Black-

tailed jack-rabbits. The Man from Nowhere. Burning
barns. Horses galloping back in. Eureka, California.

_________________________

The titles in italics are the names of Western movies, or phrases from Western movies. All the town names are real.

Take 23

a woman asks, "the horses, which side did they fall 
                                 on during the quake?" 
  and I tell her it hasn't happened yet, to call back in a minute

 I'm wearing the same blouse as the girl on TV,
  the same tiny brown flowers that flow up the neck,
the same plastic, pearlized buttons, and in this dream,
   you're taking it off me, button by button, 
until something like a fishhook jabs your hand and you yell; 
            
 I want to apologize, 
   but I'm standing by the river and shivering, 
      and you're still on TV 
       
and someone else answers your cell, 
 sounding like a pilot or help desk employee, 
  shouting louder and louder 
   until vibrations fill the glass box

 and it's then that the horses shift and pound in their stalls, 
making those 
    small coughing noises called "whinnies"
   
then that the payphone under the dung pile rings again,
 and the receiver slides out of my hand, 
    a large-eyed fish looking up at me,
      trying to fly and failing 

Ramona the Fallen


Crooked, rectangular eyes.
The stench of the horses

we knit ourselves to. Her ears
clotted with gold/diamond circles

she tugged until her scabs opened
their mouths. Hurling down her

shining silver pony, she broke
the fence with her collar-bone --

the poles banging together
with a sound like wooden bells.

Faint stars where she went into
herself with an exacto knife, a stapler:
I break everything to make it fit.

Genesis 1


a barefoot girl leads a speckled pony
into her room, the pony looks over
his shoulder, constipated or sad

she slowly spreads lotion over her knuckles,
trying to get out the blisters, the bite marks,
listening to women breathe on the other side of the wall

she pretends not to notice his scars,
the way his hair catches in his wine glass,
the way his mouth can't close on one side

she offers him her silk hem, and he chews,
his broke jaw working sideways, until her whole
dress dissolves

until she is naked, until the entire dance floor
vanishes, the stars like little forks, pricking and pricking,
until they are alone and married in the snow

HTML giant has a great post on contemporary "moves" in poetry -- which could also be called tics, cliches, or styles. I'm going to try them all out! I'm doing the negative one (not and not and not) right now!

Here's the draft:

Not the Blue One


Not the horse entire, not the gripped
withers. Not the ring of shod hooves down
the driveway. Not the girth loosening, not
the bit hanging to one side. Not the old-man-
colored jodpurs stretched so tight we worried

our whole cunt would leak through, not
the grapefruit-smelling leather boots that numbed
our toes. Not the toothbrush on the harness,
the stirrups. Not twisting the mane in our fist
as we hurl over the second hurdle. Not the dash
of a hoof in the water trap, not the stumbling

to knees in the water. Not the swerving from
traffic cones in the middle of a decaying field,
not the trip/somersault, the tail flying up and over
like a fan dance, not the falls-over, the flips-
through, making the whole fair "ooh" like a low
prayer and then silence. Not the dust tracks
on the black velvet cap.

This missing whip. This tip
of a broken tooth. This red ribbon
clipped next to his eye, until
he shies up onto the stands.
This you, dragging your ragged
bridle afterwards.

Summer Horses

through the screen door
the crunch of gravel as pick-ups roll
into the gas station next door,
the hum of a lawn mower or electric
saw from some other street

the parakeet by the window murmurs
to himself in the mirror, plucking
at a wing, if he picks anymore
he'll have nothing left

the reek of his cage mixes
with the sour scent of our pillows,
your sparse hair sweat-damp,
you pretend to sleep

the horses in the poster above the bed
are turned away, looking up
the faded hill at a fly-specked house

Ringworm Summer

On the porch that noon, we
share matches, light alcohol
from a blue bottle in our wounds.

Your purple wetsuit mended
with flag material, my mother's
bikini tied and tied again, we

urge our rented ponies into
the surf, into the blue muck
dirtied by Wednesday's rain.

Coral the color of an old scar
tears a smile into your arm;
fish, sharp paparazzi, gather to lick.

Shattered Fetlock


My uncle tells me not to
touch the tiny blue eggs
nested in the oleander bush

outside his front door.
His doorbell sounds
like a fading ice-cream

truck. Robins congregate
on his lawn, singing a Beatle's
album in reverse. On the front

steps I wear heavy gloves
meant for a much larger
man, but everything is breaking,
opening its yellow eyes.

Idaho, 1972

A fly the size of a diamond
ring lays eggs in the bay
mare's wounds, deep red

holes near her withers.
The horse flicks (right, left,
left) her velvet pocketbook

ears, nibbles the yellow
stubble smearing the roots
of the dogwood; the dogwood's

scars are closing
over our names. If you
put your hands together,

you can help me
up onto her back.
Thumbs in her rubies,

we fly around the yard,
wind ripping dirty fingers
through our pony tails.

------

Hello, world.

Riding Gear

spurs, the illegal kind, with silver spangles and sharp
points turning and flashing, like the stars kiss his ribs

and come back red-faced, blood on a black coat looks
like streaks of sweat, the bit bites into the corners

of his mouth, polka-dot sores bloom like marigolds,
froth spatters his dark chest, his mane grows wet

and twists in the heat, all sheen gone, the girth
rides back along his lesser ribs, the martingale keeps

his head tucked down so he runs with a stutter,
his hooves flair out, leads with his left, the cheekpiece

is loose, the saddle slipping, on the last fence he tips
the top rail, red and blue, ribbons flutter from his tail,

the whip stings his belly, the soft part, where it lightens
to the color of dusk, reflected in a rearview mirror