They tell you cowboys make good lovers

How the west was really won. This is not a tale about some weather worn man wearing plaid in the prairie wind. How he took his strong warm hands and tied up some thousand pound beast. It's not the tale of the settler's with their rifles and wagon wheels. About how they settled and killed the buffalo. It isn't the painting of a prairie sunset on canvas for the first time. It isn't the Hoover dam.

No, the west was won with some wire. Wire stretched between two posts. Two posts in sucession over millions of miles. Now you may say, "Well the cowboys put that up, put cows on the land." and sure, they put it up. But, the wire did its own work. With barbs evenly set to tear apart equine and bovine flesh alike if they should try to escape, this wire made cowboys and their ability to ride the horse well and guide the wayward cows in obsolete. Barbed wire stretched across the land, tearing into the back of providence with strips of rusty wire wrapped in nails. Criss-crossing along wooden posts for as many miles as the one cowboy had license to own. Then more cowboys moved in, and with them, more cows. They didn't have to be nomads of the open terrain, to ride the open down to the stocks to collect their livelihood. They could grow fat, fat upon the land, and sit comfortably in their homes, hire out the work to the less fortunate who had to brave the beating wind. The cows could grow fat upon the limited annual renewal of the open grassland, carving into it with dinnerplate hooves and seven stomachs. Upon the beast the landowner grew fat and contented, hiring out the annual pilgrimage to the meat markets to the many tan faced wanderers that tacked up their painted ponies with sun cracked leather. Yes, the barbed wire stuck, wrapping itself around the breathing beast of the prairie, made it do its bidding, burdened it with the attempt to feed so many on its limited resources. A whole territory subdivided into what was theirs and what was the rest, for the many recluses of the night to try to sneak in through its steely, biting fingers and take what did not belong. To drag back to their dens and to the cubs, kits, pups, and kittens and feed their hungry, needing maws. To try to complete the natural cycle of life. But the landowners did not like that. They came with their rifles or hired out their own specialized bounty hunters to lay in wait and to annihilate the theives. Theives on a land that was claimed much longer than the human lifespan by the claws, hooves and talons that abided there ages ago. The west was won with a strand of twisted metal that beat the open land into obedience.

The west was won.

Gross

Mmmm, snow day break.
There are a million things not to do on a snow day.
Like washing your hair. That may sound gross to you, but don't worry, I haven't come in contact with anyone outside my family since after it got really 'shiny'. I really hate washing my hair when I don't have to. It may be going on five days now.

I don't have to run on break which may be a good/bad thing. I have run after my dog, horse and sister though. And I tackled her. That took a fair amount of energy.

Homework...yeah, I really need to do some homework.

Things to do on break:
eat snow
watch TV til your brain hurts
watch more tv
read a lil
bury self in snow
take warm shower
garble up some dinner
watch a blood bath
play a lil scrabble


...not do homework

luna, luna

Knee deep in the lacy
creamy, poured on milk wonder
of over thousands of
powdered sugar glints
I stand there hinting
up to the moon
"I'd love if you were down here"
The man catches the hint
and sends the blue light
down on me
and among the trees
And at midnight
I walk through his shadows
a colder heat
wafting from my mouth
As I walk
with
the moon

Spontaneoous Me

Spontaneous me, Nature,
The loving day, the mounting sun, the friend I am happy with,
The arm of my friend hanging idly over my shoulder,
The hill-side whiten’d with blossoms of the mountain ash,
The same, late in autumn—the hues of red, yellow, drab, purple, and light and dark green,
The rich coverlid of the grass—animals and birds—the private untrimm’d bank—
the primitive apples—the pebble-stones,
Beautiful dripping fragments—the negligent list of one after another, as I happen to call
them to me, or think of them,
The real poems, (what we call poems being merely pictures,)
The poems of the privacy of the night, and of men like me,
This poem, drooping shy and unseen, that I always carry, and that all men carry,
(Know, once for all, avow’d on purpose, wherever are men like me, are our lusty, lurking,
masculine poems;)
Love-thoughts, love-juice, love-odor, love-yielding, love-climbers, and the climbing sap,
Arms and hands of love—lips of love—phallic thumb of love—breasts of
love—bellies press’d and glued together with love,
Earth of chaste love—life that is only life after love,
The body of my love—the body of the woman I love—the body of the man—the body of
the earth,
Soft forenoon airs that blow from the south-west,
The hairy wild-bee that murmurs and hankers up and down—that gripes the full-grown
lady-flower, curves upon her with amorous firm legs, takes his will of her, and holds himself
tremulous and tight till he is satisfied,
The wet of woods through the early hours,
Two sleepers at night lying close together as they sleep, one with an arm slanting down across
and below the waist of the other,
The smell of apples, aromas from crush’d sage-plant, mint, birch-bark,
The boy’s longings, the glow and pressure as he confides to me what he was dreaming,
The dead leaf whirling its spiral whirl, and falling still and content to the ground,
The no-form’d stings that sights, people, objects, sting me with,
The hubb’d sting of myself, stinging me as much as it ever can any one,
The sensitive, orbic, underlapp’d brothers, that only privileged feelers may be intimate where
they are,
The curious roamer, the hand, roaming all over the body—the bashful withdrawing of flesh
where the fingers soothingly pause and edge themselves,
The limpid liquid within the young man,
The vexed corrosion, so pensive and so painful,
The torment—the irritable tide that will not be at rest,
The like of the same I feel—the like of the same in others,
The young man that flushes and flushes, and the young woman that flushes and flushes,
The young man that wakes, deep at night, the hot hand seeking to repress what would master
him; The mystic amorous night—the strange half-welcome pangs, visions, sweats,
The pulse pounding through palms and trembling encircling fingers—the young man all color’d,
red, ashamed, angry;
The souse upon me of my lover the sea, as I lie willing and naked,
The merriment of the twin-babes that crawl over the grass in the sun, the mother never turning
her vigilant eyes from them,
The walnut-trunk, the walnut-husks, and the ripening or ripen’d long-round walnuts;
The continence of vegetables, birds, animals,
The consequent meanness of me should I skulk or find myself indecent, while birds and animals
never once skulk or find themselves indecent;
The great chastity of paternity, to match the great chastity of maternity,
The oath of procreation I have sworn—my Adamic and fresh daughters,
The greed that eats me day and night with hungry gnaw, till I saturate what shall produce boys to
fill my place when I am through,
The wholesome relief, repose, content;
And this bunch, pluck’d at random from myself;
It has done its work—I tossed it carelessly to fall where it may.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

History is encouraging. That taco goes out to my fasting wrestling friend Eric. Since he can't eat he draws tacos all over his paper, so I drew him a SUPER TACO.

The next one, well, that explains just about everything with Kenyans. Piss off a giraffe, run or die.

What has happened, of late

This really needs no explanation. Right there is the fine art of techno, doing its work.

sleep

running with a streetlight streamer pulled down from the rafters of a city asleep with a neon cowboy sitting on the bar with Jackie eating lemons and tequila and sticky syrup from a navel abandoned long ago upon the polished wood slipping across with slopping foam of an amber brew thrown over to Steve who sits waiting patiently in leather eating peanuts from a crystal ash tray that slipped from a hand ages ago and busted Steve in the head, he wears the scar proudly just like the one from the war hiddin behind his bandanna under the helmet as he crosses the bar and walks out grounding his hog into the gravely knocked apart asphault of the outer city, raring down into the desert leaving and blowing the streamers about that i picked up from a party somewhere with birthday hats and cake in the midtown park before the raccoons came to gorge upon the candles and crawl upon the tables in snarling bushy masses their bandit masks hiding their true rabid identities under their oreo fur striped on the hat of Johnny with his high water overalls pulled across his bare chest with one strapped hooked as he swings his legs in the Kentucky back country off the dock that his grandpa built, Grandpa Dave with the hooker tattooed on his forearm and his chubby fat cigars he grew so fond of when he was warring with his boys, flying bombers off a southern sea and dropping those packages that exploded in a million tiny embers hours later when the flames ebbed sending tree confetti across a crispy forest with crispy houses and crispy cities, sleeping cities where the whole city sleeps and the other nations send love for the cities, send parties and clowns in white coats with their instruments plugged in their ears, humming with the beat of the faint heart and dancing in the moonlight, dancing around the horizontal bodies in the tents with the people wrapped up in their mummie stuff like the kings of old buried in the sand for six months then pulled out and embalmed and encased in gold like a christmas choclate months old in the discount basket at the grocery store in the squeeky tiled floors and cold produce section buying milk and bread before the storm comes in and kills the power in the sleeping city when the emergency lights come on and the streetlight streamers are hard to catch like fireflies on the summer nights when I was a kid, jumping for the flourescence of a summer night streaming in the cities that sleep

late night

the soft stars fall
in light speed
against the glass of her rubber wheeled space vehicle
the space in the high beams is a sucking black
misty with swirling, unique stars
the space ahead turns red
as the spaceship cruises under dozens of
streetlight suns
blanket cloud nebulas hazy in the city
the stars collect upon the outer edges of the main bay window
wiped away to fall behind
and whip into a gravitational wind
the intercom sings out,
"Tell me, will you stand by your man"
60 miles in hyperspeed
traveling to galaxies unknown
down a yellow lined road

Fishy

So swimming led me to think of, more swimming
and the word of the day


Which is!
Ichthyoid

Go ahead, say it.
Feel the tfheeeee
then make the oi
OI!
then end, let down on the sad little D
unless you said it loudly
and you spit a little
which is perfectly acceptable
and preferable
revel in the ickiness of the word

Because, sure enough, it means fishy.
If you don't love the science of fishes and little fishes and sharkses
you might not know this
so, if you're ichthyoid
you've got the terrible characteristics of a fish
which may be good in describing you're favorite swamp monster, he may approve and not swallow you whole
I may have saved your life

also use it to describe...
goldfish
platypuses-yeah, they take all the shit
your scaley friends
anglers
Aquaman
women....in context
Sardines!
People playing Sardines
People that look like dead fish.
small fry

"Just keep swimming, just keep swimming"

Disney freaks.

Simpering

this is incredibly disturbing
and I don't lie
when horses and other animals die
they melt them
at the hospital
and give their fat to
soap companies
so, think of Fight Club
when you're showering down

To be clean, true, in the purest form, what must you go through to find that?

Must it be a following of morals set?
By people long ago, or religious factions that wrote it for you, to be followed out.
Not strictly, but just guide lines, and they will always forgive you, even if you purposefully break the rules.

Or is it, giving up everything you have a stake in, throwing it off, and finding what you believe is right, and writing that down so that other people do not have to find what is theirs, but can follow you.

Or is it taking a shower, being baptized, going through trials.

Is it all these?
There aren't answers, and I refuse to find them.