It first starts when he blocks the peyote scene from Young Guns. You’re here and here and there. He moves me. She’s my butterfly. His voice gets slurry.
Salty.
But, I’m no Danaus plexippus; I don’t like milkweed. My wings are stuck together and I’m shaking from his tremors.
I’m jealous of his mania. I want to cut open his skull, watch the neurons run wild through the West. Emilio Estevez, Kiefer Sutherland, Lou Diamond Philips riding ganglions to their deaths.
The bed’s empty now; is he gonna go Lone Ranger on me?
I’ve signed treaties; I’ve made speeches. He parodies, he says put pen to parchment, he says put your mark here, he says…you’re my little masochist, he says, there, there.
All night, he clicks through channels, receiving signals from sentries stationed in the badlands, the borderlands, on the frontier. He strategizes, positioning cigar and garter forces. My general does not dream; I’ve tried to dream for him.
My dreams are always always bullets of love; his nondreams are “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.”
He sings and waits.
Soon he’ll see soot and ash fall outside; he’ll smell the coal of an oncoming train. High noon: he’ll think he’s all alone. He’s got a pocket watch from a father he forgot; he’ll unpocket the watch, unholster his pistol, not even look for me, & ride off.
God, I love this, smacks of insanity and wildness. I’m jealous of your mania. Peace…
nice.
interesting piece. i remember parallel head-spaces from my wayward past. the buzz and snap of it.
i’m interested in the semi-colons. i eliminated almost all punctuation like that for a while from my sentences so now when i run into them they seem like hard breaks. i like how you use them here. to build the cadences.
always look forward to reading your pieces – enjoyed this, the hallucinogenic imagery riding on the relationship beneath
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