Cape Mendocino sunset. Which forgotten goddess taught the sky to die so well?
I fled westward, always westward. Old myths and older magistrates compelled.
Born in Indiana when DDT turned eggshells thin, I saw baby cardinals stillborn blue.
Enough blood paints every color red. Feathers like horse hair take paint pretty well.
I crossed the Mississippi, a young man with a green destiny to manifest.
Words were my weapons. But war after lost water war dried up my ink well.
I left West Texas in the east before the posse caught up with me.
All I did was drop some old stones down a brand new oil well.
I was lost in Nevada until skinny coyotes asked me to scare off fat cowboys.
Sharp ribs don’t take anti-coagulants or six shooters very well.
Better to smell like a coyote than a saddle-sore cowboy.
Fur or flesh: mange is mange. The stench doesn’t scrub off so well.
Every chase like every continent eventually ends. Neither whiskey,
nor freshwater for a final drink. California seawater is a bad drinking well.
Soon, it will not matter. Thank our jealous god. Sheriffs from Sacramento
hurry to the coast. I touch bark and know: makeshift redwood gallows hang just as well.
