Lacquer Sky

Roans on the hill fade to sunset.

Among lacy grass and still dust

history make its lazy way.

Joey Dryhorse decides to laugh.

Rabbit and quail do not understand.

The crow, however, does.

Native History

Joey Dryhorse traded in his spear

for a pool cue

and his rifle for a guitar.

He plays prairie grass blues

for round faced women

who smoke and drink.

He plays pools with them.

He sings about days and death,

nights and how badly

he needs a love job.

It's raining teeth.

Lightning's got us twitching.

Gum the dull knife, bro.

Lick the black off.

Back off.

Tote those totems.

Float those bottoms.

Poke them possum.

Toke 'n pass 'em.

What's a bogart, Jones?

Big Dog Bobby Doe

drove his Tonka Toy

up to the back door

and had a blow out.

Now that cowgirl

Willie Earl won't neck

unless you slip a noose

'o pearls 'round her neck.

Last time I was on camera

it added at least thirty pounds

to my waist. I haven't been

able to lose it. I am avoiding

photographers.

Did they tell you fever would be coming?

I found you on Calle Donceles,

of course, with a book in your hand.

To this extent I knew

I could be your friend.

Fix me another Pausademente,

with extra ice.

Con libros in tus manos.

Su libros hablan la idioma de

paginas secas, de viento

y vegas.

Nos digan quien somos.

Somos palabras, brasos y palabras.

I'm feeling happily gelatinous.

Gracious, my protoplasm's showing.

The tender beat him with a muddler,

beat him to within and inch of his wink.

She was algeric to flirt.

His hands were on the brink.

It was on the tip of his tongue.

She shaved ice and slice lime.

He meant mint.

She seemed to mind.

Catherine stared at the floor as if

she expected the carpet to fly away.

Lost in thoughts, she might

never be found.