The space between the chords spreads like disease,
a cough, a spasm, sweating out the night and its
familiar odd images. The dance, the game, the competition
with its rhythms and frustrations bend an ear toward
the crack of a revolver, an echo deep in a canyon, a voice
caked in rasp and unconcerned with time. The flags
wave ribbons in hair done pretty, paisley printed wild
on the folds of kerchiefs spun. There is much worry and excitement
at the start, later dulled like the brain of the man who sits
all day peeling labels from dripping bottles from his foxhole
at the end of the bar, close to the door, hungry for talk of love
and its failures and the luster of its lower selves finally worn
and ragged, tired. Cock two more back, tomorrow's rent
to live in a tent by a cave of myth and lore, going out naked
and crazed after meat and its fur till finally falling dumb
at the tape, the end, the line, the podium where others
like you have sat buzzing promises, potential and a plan
written blind one night on a takeout menu of prosperity.
The trigger is pulled. There is a rush. And in the falling
of afternoon dust, there is you, bidding them farewell,
waiting for their return, beginning yours with sleep as you
turn over and over the covers, the blankets of deep
troubles you have of the great race and all its boredoms.
Good luck.