Untitled Prose Poem Sequence
And when we rise again we'll mosey past the tumbleweed and debris down dusty drives we call our lives. Memories taken in symmetry, sepia-soaked in the saloonday sun (or look further and farther past your Kodak horizons—a cold Confederate night broods on). America's destiny, what's waiting to manifest, may I say stood the test of time? Weed out the seal and sew some new flag, what others may dread, but "Don't tread on me," disperse the many dead and flee.
He spat out a chew by some cherimoya tree and turned his gaze to the sunset, reflecting the gold dust that clung like rust to the vines of his grizzly beard. Shadows creaked across the canyons of his hands that had held a rawhide whip with the very same grip that Ahab held his mainsheet. With these he dusted off his chaps like to the sound of sandpaper, and grabbed a pint of rye from his pouch.
And as light retreats beneath the crown of the mesa, man takes to simple mosey in contemplation of the first colors of the night. Neither road seems right, but more a want to wander through the fog and mist that obscures his sight. Boots bolster his otherwise self-sufficient navigation, a mission for so much of his unknown, nothing he can call "home."
Echoes of the whinnies and wheezes of our exalted boa–constricted country countess remind him once more that barrooms make strange bedfellows. Feather go flying, spiraling out the door, caught in the sunstreaked solution of a room all aglow, the lady of the house hacks up another flaming whoop and stomps her feet on the floor. Glasses shakin', and the bourbon brethren standing by would sooner reflect on the sky than heed a consumptive cry.
Obese bankers strut in on red carpets, wearing white whiskers trimmed with tiny combs and starched collars, flanked by others donning derbies or else pinstriped suits in this hacienda sun. They step lightly on the streets where they meet, lest their shoe–shining feet be smudged by their own dirty deeds.