Thursday, November 4, 2010


Lone Ranger, stranger:
kids grown and gone
not even a smoke signal; the
wife has taken her vow of silence,
face in a laptop screen or
asleep on the distant mesa of our
Ponderosa bed:

                This is the BIG Country.

Thirty million buffalo slaughtered
like my creativity, like those
wild Indians who couldn't
conform and died
not trying.  Abandoned bones
lay white in the elements,
worth more as fertilizer:
                the economics of resurgency.

Time passes
and time will tell where this life
is migrating as I strive to link the trajectory of
railroads creeping from east and west,
bisecting  the herd of my great ideas
yet never connecting at all;
relentlessly continuing toward manifest destiny
with the logic of those useless formulas
they taught us
in calculus.

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