Poem written in a Laundromat or

Cowboy Poetry for a Bull-rider’s love letters

For Jewell Kilcher
[2^nd best poet living in Stephenville, Texas / Cowboy Capital of the World]
by Quasimofo

“YIIIIIII-HAAAAA!!!!”

1^st Spur: “I’d love every square inch of you if you didn’t have so many curves..”
it began..ending with “you and me on the futon sweet heifer!”.. —{he was a bit rough around the edges}….this 5 foot 5 redneck of a 140 lbs. rough riding on-and-off again rodeo cowboy who looked like an overgrown prairie dog burnt. But he was pure-bred Texican part Mexican tall-tellin’ it how it is am was.. raised poor in front of a box fan and whose downfall wasn’t his upbringin’—the winters got so cold they put antifreeze in the toilet with a Bowie knife handy. He snarled & limped temping thru the cheese factory we both worked thumping lonely pangs cacti-cupid loosed upon the rump of his heart.. the blood had reversed course to a slow trickle drawl keelboatin’ loves’ lassoed master across mountain slopes in cannibal agonies lighter than a sage-brush [*which is not a chance encounter with a wise person or a utensil for painting masterpieces]. Yep Howdy!..despite his buckskinned leather longings, bull-riding paid by the hour—and at 7 seconds a pop..well, it didn’t cover the sponge baths during ER visits.. Never ponder with a prodder or branding iron..!

2^nd Spur: ‘Women are tougher than bulls’, i said, ‘you never bronc them—they bronc you’,
..but god are they lovely to ride…using both hands.. he said the only thing he knew in that dept. was if you ever get a woman in bed, go under the covers and lick like crazy—he preferred to give things they’re simpler names since life was just a horseshoes game—the fun part of this therapy was to kick everyone’s cockeyed ass! “Hey, wouldn’t it be cool if instead of the running of the bulls in Spain, they had the running of the women senoritas?!” let’s go snipe hunting on Brokeback Mt.!

3^rd Spur: Real spurs don’t jingle-jangle cause real Caboas are at least knee-deep in the shit-kicking. Rattlesnake belts with big buckles are for poseurs too… Man wasn’t put on this earth to be another man’s slave…;he is directionally impaired but should know right from wrong..and that the south will never rise again—cause one time in mid-air he met God who told him so…
the com fort wild er ness front ier rikkity-racks on ranch hands
cow hands herding the ancestors who got along with indians without their dinner
reservations… dark overcoat strollin’ up the ‘i’m ok, you’re ok corral’ Riding into the sun’s a load of crap—even with a wide-brimmed hat (you pay more for the gallon with these too)..

4^th Spur: the pioneers on trails had read instruction manuals for how to commit hara-kiri using fire ants. They dusted off and pouted those Saint Louis Lamour lips.. Buffalo chips were used to start fires on the plains, and could be used as frisbees by chitlins. Laundry was an all day task if clean water could be found—not like the quarters courting soft wash permanent press fabric softener stain-remover ‘get along little doggies, you’re no misfortune’.. hand me that bleach, we’re saving work and time but we’re still missing our prime [ribs]…

5^th Spur: i drove him home after night shift to his trailer house, helped with the punctuation <,.:;(> spelling made sure he scrawled his true feelings . he handed me bovine bottlenecks and said he’d one day cook t-bones for me on the hibachi he’d used only for bologna till now. One day you’re gonna win the ‘Pullhisbeer Prize in Poetry’! he bartered… ..what’s life but reciting Stetson Shakespeare.. drinking beers
with your peers? I never saw him again.. ..heard he won $500.
…finally finally..
he made it out the chute…