So live to be an open range, no barbed wire binds.
I don’t desire to herd you to a church, maybe a discoteca
to fit in among echoed love songs even if you say
fitting in is for fools who use fries instead of real potatoes.
Bulls. Constant static sold as music. There’s always tacos.
Ashes to ashes, we chose to dine on dust,
good taste lost in leather texture and asphalt cow pies.
In a lasso loop dance, I asked her fantasy, “What more?”
and heard it’s that she has someone left.
A million forgotten moments in nights never forgotten.
Hope is the next doomed rodeo lasts forever. And tacos.
All’s been dined on but permanent love.
Get kicks out of bed, boot boys from the saddle.
A life of beginnings rides out only endings.
Rope burns are what’s left after eight seconds of doom.
Want someone who’ll never run free?
Corral. Carry rope, sharp spurs. A feast of tacos.
I gnaw at death when I draw close to us, the dust--
our sexual history not worth recounting.
Every bone under stadium light, every horn gouge,
sheet ripple, accidental smell, dozens—hundreds—of names.
Hope there’s never a test except taste.
But don’t worry about rattlesnakes under our eggs,
we’ll be in wet blankets by last bite.