He left his horse by the road,
came through the double doors.
I could see swirling dust in his wake.
His boots were sleek black and
his holster was empty. At the stool
next to mine, he took off his hat, set
it on the bar. He asked for scotch. Swirled
it around the glass, looking for something
in the bottom. I don’t know what. I spoke.
You ain’t from around here.
He spoke:
I seen this whole goddamn town from above,
seen you drunk on whisky and seen the day
–fast approaching– when you were too slow
on the draw. What is in this glass of mine
ain’t what is. I seen this whole goddamn world
from above; I been drunker’n hell since,
but I need not drink, I need not eat, for I know
what is true and what ain’t. Your soul ain’t.
But mine. Well, that’s a different matter.
I done ran with the gods, climbed above the
earthly spheres, my throat gasping for air–
dumb as my soul remained; air is not real.
But like all who found out, I reckon, I had to
return to this lie of a place, where ain’t no
life but to seek love and beauty and wisdom
and wait to see them true as truth again.
And I have waited, but ain’t no waitin’
for me no longer. This
                    is the three-thousandth day.
He never did touch a drop in his glass
and he walked out the swinging doors
as he had come, but left his hat on the bar.

I found him at the same place a week from then,
drinking scotch like a man who is to hang, bare head,
his horse outside –two wretched stumps on his back
                           where no saddle could now rest.

I lean on the outside wall
smoking a cigarette i bummed,
and she paces up the sidewalk toward
me, the happy-new-year sign above my
head –a mockery well into january–
reflects on her face,
like make up no magazine would sell.

She says I give massages
for donations
and do i got a donation.

If i had anything in my pockets,
I would buy her some whisky
and pay her to love herself.

They chased you in Chicago
and across the Mississippi.
You said you’d love me forever
and forever did not take long
to come.

I told you I was a decent woman.
I should have never gone with you.

Now you are on the sidewalk,
with a hole in your cheek,
and the whitest shirt you owned –
soaked, as you bleed out.

Now you leave me behind these bars
to know you weren’t, after all,
faster, and stronger, and smarter
than them all.

You knew how to talk to a girl,
Johnny, but you never learned to dodge bullets.

Where do all these soliloquies of yours come from?

“There can be no rest
until we all, for one night,
run through the streets,
drunk and naked,
and remember that our bodies
fit into each other
as easy as the road
can take us far away from this town
if we desire.”

Ese gran pueblo de sus versos
se hizo pelotón de fusilamiento.
Buscó las piedras más redondas.

Yo no sé si por poeta, por cristiano
o por loco, no sé si por los tres,
se le ocurrió proclamar a grito pelado:
“El que esté libre de…”
Y antes de finalizar su plagio,
ese gran pueblo de sus versos
le reventó la existencia
con métrica precisa.

Cuando llueve,
abro los poros y me acuerdo
cómo crecer, cómo empaparme
de la calidez de la memoria –
el frío siempre ha sido
pasajero.

y allá en el cerro
se escucha el perro
de la muchachas,
tristes y en fachas,
que andan buscando
a don Fernando
aquel buen mozo
¿cayó en un poso?
quién sabe si alguien
lo encontrará.

en cama, grave
de tanto agave
yace clotilde
-así, sin tilde-
muerta aparenta
y nadie la renta
va ir a cobrarle,
menos pagarle.
pa mi que el dueño
se va a cabriar.

tienda la mano
a todo hermano,
quién sabe cuándo
usté ande mamando,
pidiendo platas
raspando latas
vea que las vacas
andan bien flacas
y su vecino
sabe ordeñar.

no le haga caso
a ningún payaso
manos de goma
no es una broma
por esta senda
¡injuria tremenda!
algún caminante
torna tunante
y bien limpiecito
lo pueden dejar.

Así compasivo,
jamás vengativo,
mi queridísimo
ilustradísimo
y leal transeúnte
pa que yo unte
en el pan mantequilla
y coma natilla
aunque sea un cinco
dígneseme dar.

i can not say the joy it gives me
to be the bringer of these news.