New Noose for Old Coots

(poems go here) Besieged spaghetti western town: Lend me your scene! I’ll ride in all macho on my steed named Voltage gutting rapists and swirling ice cream. I’m all gun and games. BAM BAM BAM BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM — But when they stop rolling film there in the glory cinemind, I realize there’s a problem. Six shooter shot six sorry souls. Shit. That blood isn’t looking too ketchup-y, now is it? All the low moans dissonance with the high cries the solemn cowboy masculinity? well there that goes. Buried in the shallow grave of blood n bullets n bodies. Voltage bolted when I dysmounted, jumpy as hell. I saw the ruined shattered ribs, the slicked-back holy ginger hair, the totality of lead and powder, the finality of skin and water, the cross old Julius Caesar all in a glance. If wisdom was born out of a headache, Old Sheriff Slim musta birthed a raunchy drunk Bodhisattva. Sheriff Slim was born in 1892, son to Leslie and Bill Buzzard, named slim after his chances of living past age 4. He was 87 when he died just off a 14 year old girl when I cut down his dizzy head. But others weren’t so tragic, just call me the guillotine and I’ll call you innocent, reader.