John Macker

O Outrider!
Del Rio sez
Your language speaks armistice
But your actions bleed gun
food for fire
Food for thought, Bill answered.
You can see them now huddled
Beneath the scarp
Billy, Coca & Del Rio, windblown,
scarfaced sharing
the same ochre-stained stone
squatting there intently sharing a
fine reef of Jamaican, the bottom
of Bill's holster (the one emblazoned with
the heraldic white knight of Paladin)
skims the rock back & forth as he
shifts his welterweight from
boot to boot.

Defines & defends for his native
Anton Chicoans, post-structuralism with
A juniper branch right there in the dirt
Using the call & response as if
It was something spiritual if not parochial
If not the blues
& the stone rhythms of the territory populate
every crag, every tear & bone
I want to crawl into Billy's holster
I swear replace his trigger with the self
What does it feel like empty?
Having not bruised the world yet with
His soulful intuition
Having not divested himself of
Planet ritual
All that remains to intuit from here:
Occasional hungry sex
A good horse, death.

There is a
Storm growing over Gallup
& white stars fade
unflinchingly into a featureless
red sky.




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