Take me back there
Waterfalls and tropical foliage
Reverberating along my spine
Soaked with sweat
A deep summer hike
Wearing my clean eyes
And high tides.
I jumped
Like you jumped
Into the deepness there.
A riverbend
An oceanscape
A photograph I’ll always take
That had my ride
In shotgun
Prana, Ohana, sun.
And on the way home
Pure darkness
I had my imagination
Remembering
What I had not seen
A sloping hill
Into the open sea
Around the bend
And horse stables
Wild as I’ve never been free.
Don’t take me back to misery
I’m here with you now,
I am a dusty road sign
Still signalling the way
Upon a path
I know by heart
Ohana I’m on my way.
Tag: shotgun
Turning Outlaw Again (day 1825)
I’m turning outlaw again,
My stinging words will pierce thy soul
And my fists will bleed my wicked ways,
I’ll drink my beer warmer then
My women have ever been.
I’m turning down the next dusty road
Handing over my soft spoken ways
For rowdy bars and snake tattoos
I’ll start to hiss with the devils drink.
I’m turning outlaw again,
My gang will be 20 strong
On an open road,
Our clubhouse filled with naked women
Who have signed their posters on the walls.
Saw toothed barbed wire
Will be our backup guard dog
And strapped in a leather sheath to my hip
Will be the deadliest blade known to man.
I’ll shoot my shotgun out the back door
At empty beer cans from the night before,
And all my cigarette smoke
Will lead me to toke,
Cause baby, I’m turning outlaw again.
’57 Appaloosa (day 1227)
Can you control my yelling as I short my conscience to your wedding?
-Laughing with the children blowing bubbles down by the pond-
I didn’t expect to see your friend Lucifer standing there
As I convinced you to drag the fresh linens through tumbleweeds of mystery
-It is the style, I explained bitterly through my clenched teeth-
Amazed to know you fret over the cake with your eyes opened so wide
Calming the sunshine with sips of refreshments from white dixie cups
-I chewed all around the top rim of mine, unable to resist the feeling-
Your sawdust left a trail for the onlookers to follow as you trailed off into obscurity
“Madness” they muttered under their breath directing their eyes to your mother
Her hands were boiling with innocence; a fools bargain at the end of the road
-My loaded shotgun wasn’t a toy gimmick to be taken lightly, though I held it so-
Even the village authorities didn’t know what to make of it all
Trained as they were in 39 different methods to disengage a situation
A calming hustle settled over the observers
-I came prepared with my gradient tinted aviators and beer cozy-
The ’57 should-be-retired Cadillac rolled on over the loose gravel
Unnerving the guests as her tumbleweed dress sat down amongst the tears and stains
Rat piss and shit and splintered deluxe leather upholstery
Sporting a vintage look you can only get from years of missing affection
-I couldn’t help but remark on the timing of it all-
Doorless I was on my sturdy ’94 Bronco, I still had a radio good for the local DJ
But oh was I jealous of the missing hubcap on that old Cadillac
Rattling free as they sped through the streets, top always down.. it was a ’57 after all
We all knew they were notorious for having glitchy automatic tops
Plus, the rust on that thing was shining so bright in that heathen sun
-I turned to the wild thing next to me, nearly popping out of her mid-twenties figure dress-
“Say Cindy-Lou, I’ve gotta cooler full-a-beer, two lawn chairs an’a good-ol-radio
Wanna grab my shotgun an’head on up to the ol’ mine and shoot the breeze?”
-I could see it in her eyes it wasn’t the beer she was after-
Her nose rings and solid gold spacers told me she liked firing shotguns
Wild women always had a soft spot in my heart
Their unnerving contradictions always dropped my caution to the wind
But I rolled out of there with my spirits singing about Friday nights
2 good speakers in the ol’ Bronco: front right and rear left
-I wasn’t spitting sin, I was just riding on the gin waves of the 1230 nuptialities-
So we left those 76 long jaw’d and sweating visitors at those old rodeo grounds
The automatic shifter kicked a bit as it shifted into third
But the dust wasn’t settled from the ’57 Appaloosa
Rattling down the never happier road to short lived elation
We turned right when they turned left
We headed higher as they got down; after all it was honeymoon season
In the land of Friday nights and worn out shotguns
My Land | Chapter V (day 1128)
XX
I had started my journey West by myself. Myself and John-bo my trusty steed. John-bo was a donkey. John-bo carried my two wooden packs on each side, day in day out. I walked beside.
For the first seven days of travel I came upon pioneers of all sorts. Some just starting out, some coming out. One day I reached a sign that said: “End of the road. New York back that way. If you’re walking this way you have 15 days until you will reach the next post.”
I knew trading posts were common along these routes.
I checked John-bo’s packs. We had enough rice for four months. I was glad I didn’t have to pack his food too.
It took me a while to get used to the walking. I was used to light stepping through city streets by this time wearing awful fashions I hadn’t really enjoyed. I hadn’t been able to get a proper pair of mukluks until I was well into Iroquois land.
I had walked into a friendly Seneca village who hadn’t been expecting me. I must have slipped past their scouts with my light stepping – not likely. Like I said, they were peaceful.
There were a few other white men there in the village. Some were drunk and chasing women. The Seneca men cringed when we both caught site of one. I think they eyed me suspiciously because of this. I hoped I wouldn’t find this in all the villages I would come along.
I should have taken my long barrel to the drunks. I could tell they wanted me to.
I had kept my long barrel next to me for the first fortnight. I didn’t enjoy walking without it, for fear of the unknown. Perhaps because of laziness I found a slip to hold it on ol’ John-bo.
Ten days after I left Iroquois land, the Seneca, I came upon a line of twelve women and nine men. Only seven married couplets among them and four rascals, each old enough to know which end of the shotgun to look down. They talked a lot and moved slower, though I enjoyed the company. It was nice to not communicate in grunts and gestures.
[note: to read the full epic track my land]
Four Horses (day 552)
Death brings me to you
In unbridled fashion
Ceremoniously garbed
Buttons decked with gold
Sword sharpened
Toes pointy
Hat properly feathered
Death, in it’s fantasy
Bleeding my neck
Into pale luminescence
Creeking along
In shotgun
Erect like a ghost
Proud back
Black stripes cross my chest
And four horses pull
As death bring me to you