Two Outlaws
We used to run together
Two outlaws running free
But now a steely lawman’s
Replaced the outlaw you used to be
And the friend you were to me.
* * * *
Awake
I lie here, awake,
in the arms of another transient lover,
thinking of you.
Once we were closer than brothers;
now every night I listen, straining to hear
the distant thunder of your guns.
I know they point through the darkness,
their bolts of lightning flashing my name,
each shot aimed at my heart.
I lie here, awake,
a frightened animal hunched
before your torrential storm.
* * * *
Billy #1
This is something I don’t want to do.
You think this is easy for me?
After all the times we’ve had,
all the days in the saddle,
all the nights by your fire?
You think I can just throw away that life
like knocking the dust from my heels,
everything we did together,
everything left to do?
It’s the money I need, the stability,
the clearing of my name.
But I want you to know
if I could change this course I’m on,
I would. If I could
kill anyone else and let you go free,
believe me, Billy,
I would.
* * * *
Wanted Man
Sometimes I just want to lie down where I am
and wait for them to catch me.
But what good would that do?
Where would I be?
The same place I am now—
alone, lonely, lost,
without you.
What’s the use?
The roads are too dangerous if I stay on them
for too long. How many lives have I ruined
by casual theft? Not enough.
Not enough
to make up for their theft of you.
Perhaps if you were “safe” somewhere,
under lock and key,
it would be easier for me.
I know stone walls do not a prison make
unless those walls are
made of wood and buried
six feet under.
Where I should be.
The worst part is I didn’t get to say goodbye.
You told me to run
and I ran,
believing you behind me.
I didn’t even know you were gone until
I crept back to that inconvenience store
under cover of darkness and
driving rain only to find you
etched in chalk,
brilliant under brilliant lights
and beginning to run in the rain.
Now every car looks alike, every license plate
reads to me another day I’m
Not with them
Not with you
Alone.
Everyone who stares too long
at my poster-perfect face
convinces me to follow
your dying command.
I’ve been running on empty too long now
a wanted man.
Sleep is a stranger to me—the only
night I see is that eternal one
your beautiful eyes are closed on.
At my back I hear
death’s insidious whisper.
I can’t outrace the sun— there are
few hiding places left
as yet unspoiled
by my bloody tears.
I have only two bullets left—one
for the lawman who pulled your noose too tight, and one
for me—my ticket to you.
* * * *
This Outlaw Gig
A bottle of magic bought at a grocery store with a small bill
and twenty minutes later a new me rises in the cloudy mirror
of a dingy gas station bathroom.
In another town, in the grip of fear, I go to the mall
and as they sweep up the dyed ends of my cut hair, I drive away.
No one could recognize me now.
I don’t even have an ID that looks like me.
The next state over, I get pulled for speeding
but the car is stolen and without registration
I shoot the officer and peel away—
I’m getting good at this outlaw gig.
Soon I grow tired of driving, of running,
but there’s no where left to go
when half a million dollars begins to drag you down.
* * * *
Cocksure
Cocksure, you swagger into the cantina,
full of yourself, hot from the heat of battle
and proud…unbearably proud.
I loathe you and your sureness, your ease
as you sidle up to the bar, royalty
and not your everyday, common gunslinger.
I loathe your boastful voice, your roaming hands,
your arrogant eyes.
I don’t know whether to wrap my arms
around your neck and strangle the life from you, or
sweep you into a strong embrace and never let you go.
Your wildness excites me and
I loathe myself for that.
Later, in the kitchen, I scrub the pots with angry hands
and hate myself as I listen out for the sound of your voice.
When it whispers in my ear, a hot breath from the desert,
I flush from your closeness, your hands
not quite touching my waist, your body
not quite pressed against mine.
I loathe my reaction.
But my brusqueness doesn’t put you off for here,
at last, stands the one cook’s boy
who doesn’t fall in the wake of your passing,
who doesn’t stumble over himself to bend over for you.