old cahoots
Posted: April 5th, 2010, 12:07 am
they say if you bring em some rot gut in a shoe box
their eyes will gleam like model T head lights
I like my poems poured in a dirty amethyst shot glass
out yonder the mysterious mountains look transparent
you can hear the Apache tear wind blood curdling call
through the smoke trees, century plants or Spanish bayonet
sometimes called Lord's candle shooting its white glory wad
the bony finger of the horizon line points like a compass
spinnin at some mystery spot the timers tell of some
strange object that appeared one ghost town silver window
night, out there where the needles shoot and the stars fall
like petrified rain through the heavens of drunken storm gods
the distance speaks tongues of fire along twisting dirt roads
past the monuments of Christmas like lights strung into infinity
the spook lights flicker in rock formations and above the peaks
there the dried river beds follow patterns that have no reason
an ancient sign waits at the wash mouth that lost its direction
but still gestures with odd markings with a cow skull whose eye
holes seem to glimmer and a low blow whisper rattles around
like Spike Jones passed by these parts played on the brow
still lookin past them sockets into the hollow sounds following
some invisible treasure map to dead man's gulch then shoots
straight like an arrow toward that great opening above the plane
where the voices gather in the thunder egg at the cave grave hat
you can still hear curses and broken prayers dancing on the brim
before the whole milky way mirage whips around like a sidewinder
and leaves the broken cobalt bottles in the dead shack to collect
moon beams and silent chants that drift in and out from the
medicine man that once appeared like a shadow in feathers of gold
I like my poem in a dirty amethyst shot glass like a shot of snake venom
their eyes will gleam like model T head lights
I like my poems poured in a dirty amethyst shot glass
out yonder the mysterious mountains look transparent
you can hear the Apache tear wind blood curdling call
through the smoke trees, century plants or Spanish bayonet
sometimes called Lord's candle shooting its white glory wad
the bony finger of the horizon line points like a compass
spinnin at some mystery spot the timers tell of some
strange object that appeared one ghost town silver window
night, out there where the needles shoot and the stars fall
like petrified rain through the heavens of drunken storm gods
the distance speaks tongues of fire along twisting dirt roads
past the monuments of Christmas like lights strung into infinity
the spook lights flicker in rock formations and above the peaks
there the dried river beds follow patterns that have no reason
an ancient sign waits at the wash mouth that lost its direction
but still gestures with odd markings with a cow skull whose eye
holes seem to glimmer and a low blow whisper rattles around
like Spike Jones passed by these parts played on the brow
still lookin past them sockets into the hollow sounds following
some invisible treasure map to dead man's gulch then shoots
straight like an arrow toward that great opening above the plane
where the voices gather in the thunder egg at the cave grave hat
you can still hear curses and broken prayers dancing on the brim
before the whole milky way mirage whips around like a sidewinder
and leaves the broken cobalt bottles in the dead shack to collect
moon beams and silent chants that drift in and out from the
medicine man that once appeared like a shadow in feathers of gold
I like my poem in a dirty amethyst shot glass like a shot of snake venom
