Specifically because it's one of my favorite pieces I've ever written.
It has no actual personal sentimental value like most of my work consists of and in fact the inspiration sprung from my disillusioned love for western films. It's not that I dislike westerns now, in fact I grew up with them and there's a nostalgia and even a sort of admiration for men like Clint Eastwood always playing the "good" guy but over time a growing disdain has fallen over such characters like him, among John Wayne, Gene Autry and so forth. There's a growing resentment specifically towards the American cinema of cowboys. Part of it being the lack of female characters that aren't a trope of damsel in distress, prostitute, or virgin married to a man that doesn't deserve her. Along with the empowerment and almost glamorization of killing Natives, raping indigenous women, and the happy-go-luck idea of "happy" slaves.
This not as visible in gorier Italian westerns.
Even though this genre has slowly died out over the years with the casual and lethargic return that Quentin Tarantino sparked with Django and then with the Hateful Eight, I think it has disappeared from the lime light, from the mass popularization it was back in the 1950's. Instead the central themes like testosterone driven males has shifted from the backdrops of the old South and desolate towns to the modern day cities where Superheroes fight evil for the common everyday man.
This has all left within me a hollow sentience. Although the flaws of their characters are attributable to anyone, not specifically catering to men, they've left nothing but boredom in their wake. Slowly turning dust into smaller grains of sand.
So I give you this. Thanks for reading.
Even Cowboys Cry
A boy wearing a yellow raincoat cocks a silver plastic gun in one hand
and grips the inside of a melted chocolate with the other.
His stance is firm and poised rendering the expressions of his heroes-or rather his fathers’ figures on the wall of a studio apartment he visits once a week.
and grips the inside of a melted chocolate with the other.
His stance is firm and poised rendering the expressions of his heroes-or rather his fathers’ figures on the wall of a studio apartment he visits once a week.
All four corners memorized.
He stares now from the bottom of a street.
He chews bubblegum, the color of his grandmother’s blush or a slapped wrist.
“It takes heart to be mean” he’s told.
For all we know he wants to be the saint and the antagonist but it doesn’t show,
it’s not registered between smirks and spits.
He’s been frozen-food fed since he was weaned off his mother’s milk
and affection.
Sometimes he plays with the snakes in the backyard of the girl he’s in love with
They give him a cigarette and call him lonesome cowboy bill
So the wounds heal and the days grow shorter
The siren of the ice cream truck become a wake-up call
as they turn into the screams of men in blue uniforms
the sugar melts between the warm asphalt and
no one notices a child go missing when the bus drives away
in the kid’s place lies a key-chain and a school lunch bag
hope comes in the shape of a old taxi with a skeleton in the driver seat
snakes becoming criminals in the shadows
There’s a ticket for the crossroads but he ends up in Nevada, our charlatan warrior
his girl-child neighbor loses a tooth in the dark and the zipper of her favorite jeans
he doesn’t call and she doesn’t answer
he changes his name and grows scars on his knuckles, he wants to be like the man
in the car commercials, he wants to rid himself of his accent
instead he acquires a taste for cheap alcohol, an asphyxiating penchant for
street powders and scrapes up enough money for soft leather boots that
make a clacking sound when he walks quickly
He stares now from the bottom of a street and walks up to a payphone. I want to go home; he whispers this into his wallet.
He chews bubblegum, the color of his grandmother’s blush or a slapped wrist.
“It takes heart to be mean” he’s told.
For all we know he wants to be the saint and the antagonist but it doesn’t show,
it’s not registered between smirks and spits.
He’s been frozen-food fed since he was weaned off his mother’s milk
and affection.
Sometimes he plays with the snakes in the backyard of the girl he’s in love with
They give him a cigarette and call him lonesome cowboy bill
So the wounds heal and the days grow shorter
The siren of the ice cream truck become a wake-up call
as they turn into the screams of men in blue uniforms
the sugar melts between the warm asphalt and
no one notices a child go missing when the bus drives away
in the kid’s place lies a key-chain and a school lunch bag
hope comes in the shape of a old taxi with a skeleton in the driver seat
snakes becoming criminals in the shadows
There’s a ticket for the crossroads but he ends up in Nevada, our charlatan warrior
his girl-child neighbor loses a tooth in the dark and the zipper of her favorite jeans
he doesn’t call and she doesn’t answer
he changes his name and grows scars on his knuckles, he wants to be like the man
in the car commercials, he wants to rid himself of his accent
instead he acquires a taste for cheap alcohol, an asphyxiating penchant for
street powders and scrapes up enough money for soft leather boots that
make a clacking sound when he walks quickly
He stares now from the bottom of a street and walks up to a payphone. I want to go home; he whispers this into his wallet.
But there’s nothing in there except for phone numbers he doesn’t
recognize and worn midnight shakes.
His hands tremble.
A man wearing a red suede jacket cocks a silver pistol in his hands.
He’s gone back home but it’s different now
the studio apartment has turned into a new casino complex
and his father lives in the cemetery. He brings roses.
He doesn’t feel quite natural in the emergencies of life, this goon hero of ours
His childhood sweetheart wears lacquered nails and has grown a beer belly
he wades in her backyard for a bit,
the murder in his palms for leaving, for drifting when he could have stayed still
he spits and it evaporates
the snakes are nothing to the
the devil in his eyes
A man wearing a red suede jacket cocks a silver pistol in his hands
and fires
there’s a moment of silence
a bird chirps in the distance
the heat lingers
there’s confusion
and then
just a man
in the corner of a street
with an open mouth
and a crooked
sincerity for
all the things
you have to do
to be lonesome
cowboy
bill
recognize and worn midnight shakes.
His hands tremble.
A man wearing a red suede jacket cocks a silver pistol in his hands.
He’s gone back home but it’s different now
the studio apartment has turned into a new casino complex
and his father lives in the cemetery. He brings roses.
He doesn’t feel quite natural in the emergencies of life, this goon hero of ours
His childhood sweetheart wears lacquered nails and has grown a beer belly
he wades in her backyard for a bit,
the murder in his palms for leaving, for drifting when he could have stayed still
he spits and it evaporates
the snakes are nothing to the
the devil in his eyes
A man wearing a red suede jacket cocks a silver pistol in his hands
and fires
there’s a moment of silence
a bird chirps in the distance
the heat lingers
there’s confusion
and then
just a man
in the corner of a street
with an open mouth
and a crooked
sincerity for
all the things
you have to do
to be lonesome
cowboy
bill
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