Amarillo
The yellow ain’t yellow anymore, its aged. The Texas sun makes me look like I outlived my son. Why is the war memorial gift shop closed tomorrow? I need the plastic green helmet by next week’s today. This territory is mine, i’ll wrestle you down to the dirt for it like a dog. The beggars are begging too hard near my home, we got to send them home. Let them sniff strips near the soup kitchen, handle pots and pans for rations of bread by a bowl. The skatepark in Amarillo could use some power washing, the words and symbols would not make the news unless if a bombing was being reported as well. Strips of leather from worn out boots to bags from fascist countries will be the new money when the ink runs dry, the museum tells us that the American Natives are already ahead of us with the leather hoarding. The headliner from the navy blues of the helium fields could use a couple of leather weaves. A hammock made from leather weave would not move with a breeze, a heavy bag is a heavyweight that got trapped in it. You oughta wear a gas mask when you near an aircraft, the fuel is the scent of witchcraft. The hairs in the nose are braided in the direction of an assembly line, pass me some honey mesquite sunflower seeds and mulberry plants because the gear is in my nose. Keep that aircraft away from my horse, it’s another dust bowl waiting to happen and a shaded silver night leaf hoping for a snacking. Satan is getting blushed by that stuff, his ivy hauled some of the quacking. The time is valuable but the happiness that comes from spontaneous humor is holding me by the fringes off my jacket. The merchant named Engelmann told me that the cowardice are illest people ridden with rational sickness. That man comes from downtown, his memory don’t serves him well. He forgot what he had to sell by the time his walks by the panhandle had ended and before he started up again. Talking down when he goes up town, when his daddy is smooching pennies at the bank like a daisy. His daddy the banker better tell him off, the trade ain’t going well but he’s still well fed in that loft. When dust was handed out in forms of bowls to the property of the people from the yeasteryears, the bankers were mauled. The tried to crawl out of this blowing dust like everything was happening beneath the haystacks that we were standing on. Eaten raw like purslane with tomato because the teller title implied that he had a say in how things ran, he told time with his pocket watch. He told me when I owed or borrowed but I got him by the collar cause he can’t tell me the weather tomorrow. The f4 ain’t no f5 but the patio is now a yard sale and the yard is the garage. Belt the home grown down to the cellar and let the others whimper in the spiral, the tornado is not from here like the rest of them field bindweeds. We don’t get along with the non natives because we have nothing to say in common, the selection of milk is becoming too broad because of these people. You come here, you work here. Pack my meat for me, earn your growing in the open prairie. Standing on the side of the roadside wearing purple on october, I ain’t hit nobody recently but I need the glue and the sole of my shoe to come together after throwing it at a rambler. Hot peppers for the Palmers, they trying to take away my livestock and they just got here. Deep crimson, let them turn into due to their chatter being toxic to my listening. Take it back to buffalo, invasive and nettling it has become. The stork rentals has got to them, the blooming business is dead in the water here. I know the tape recorder was rolling but we may have to do a do over because the bolo tie couldn’t be tied anymore tight. The neck swells and it makes it even more tight, I let the roll keep rolling for documentary sake. When the bolo is tied this tight, it feels like we are in an amphitheatre. They having musicals where the cowboys had shoot outs when their livestock was taken. The thinking left markings on the lining of the cowboy hat like it was a conveyor belt getting the words out.