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The only thing that stops the dust is the rain. It’s a sweet reprieve, but there is no middle ground. The land is either as dry as the Betty Ford clinic, or as wet as the ocean floor. Everything can be seen from the ridge overlooking Armadillo as John Marston gently bounces along atop...


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Rising Son
Posted on Thursday, December 4 2008 @ 11:59:05 PST

Rising Son

Flushed cheeks, hands in jeans,
he struts calmly
in cotton fields.
No "azure" sky or dreams in "gossamer"
tie his mouth
to his sun-dried crown
sewn by banded hands.
Hanging loose,
like handsome dust rolling
down Scylla through Charybdis,
so ripe and pale
as the flesh of Jonagold,
his back runs wild
from the mazes of hay
to the thruways of day,
for his blood is Telemachus,
his head is Sawyer,
and his feet are size American.
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