(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.