{"id":3484,"date":"2008-09-25T14:18:41","date_gmt":"2008-09-25T14:18:41","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/cowboy\/"},"modified":"2008-09-25T17:03:07","modified_gmt":"2008-09-25T17:03:07","slug":"cowboy","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/cowboy\/","title":{"rendered":"Cowboy"},"content":{"rendered":"

By David E. Oprava.<\/p>\n

Gorgeous full-tank-at-a-hundred-bucks feel
\nsends me high with help from the fumes,
\nsky looking down at the ascending mood,
\nme in a basket with a lifetime in tow
\ncoming higher until the rest area sign
\npulls us over for a ponder and wander
\nthrough the dog walking lanes
\nexclaiming that the race wasn’t about race,
\nit was about change,
\nexplaining to the cleaning man
\nin the bathrooms that I hadn’t clogged the toilet,
\nI just needed a drink from the tap,
\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0
\nmorning mist from the
\nroad hanging, bored, waiting for
\nthe first crash to come<\/p>\n

not potable, he says, now he tells me,
\nfeeling queasy, might have been the enchiladas
\neaten at the burger van
\non cloud sixty-nine, mile high, bad idea
\nto mix altitude with beer
\nand find the morning after fear
\nof regurgitated thoughts in the motel sink,
\nthe stink of old ideas gone off, \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0<\/p>\n

two heads bob to rock, \u00a0
\nicebergs lost in the desert
\nfighting the suns rays<\/p>\n

back on the road,
\njettisoned by common sense
\nand off-roading well into the new millennium,
\nthis is it, here, now, all that counts,
\nshe says with sunglasses masking spinning steel rims,
\nshe spies the man next to her in the flying car and wonders,
\nwho the hell is that?
\nFat, sizzling in the fryer of the diner,
\nleatherette philosophers with jet-black handlebar moustaches
\non their motorbikes parked in a line
\nthat don’t belabour the notion
\nof wrong or right, flee or fight,
\nanother riot in the cities last night,
\ntook a thousand men to subdue a hungry mother
\nand her two kids,<\/p>\n

cop sunglasses sit
\non the counter, empty seat
\nand pie crumbs he forgot<\/p>\n

it was the west that won,
\nthe rest are just people scurrying around
\nunder the light bulb filament sun,
\none hundred four degrees in the shade
\nalmost boiling the lemonade of the kid
\nwho ran in to tell his mom
\nthe libertines had come to town,
\nonly it’s me and the missus driving down route three<\/p>\n

road kill splatters the \u00a0
\ntarmac canvas, Jackson P.
\nwas here, gone today<\/p>\n

into the horizon which ends,
\nwe hope, with a slip-slidey dip in the sea,
\nat least that’s where it used to be,
\nsays the man on the horse,
\nlooking perplexed,
\nan anachronism wearing chaps,
\nMarlboro smoke flows from his nose,
\nhe clasps my shoulder and says,
\nson, the west ain’t never done,
\nit just goes, and goes, and goes,
\nbut even I can see the sky
\nis draining into the sea,
\nclouds drowning and lighting
\nlittering the reefs, custodians
\nnot sweeping them away
\nfor fear of electrocution,
\nthey don’t get paid enough for that,
\ninsurance won’t cover the risk as the sea
\nfills up with heavenly detritus.<\/p>\n

dolphins on strike, \u00a0
\nprotesting their turn in the
\nnext evolution leap<\/p>\n

She suggests we drive into the mouth
\nof a whale heading south,
\nso I count out change from the ashtray,
\njust enough to get a one way trip
\non a clapped-out humpback heading to sea,
\ncovered in barnacles and rust,
\nneeding an overhaul, but the Japanese
\nowners don’t have the liquidity,<\/p>\n

hear the dead sea song,
\nrequiem sung by the drunk
\ncrew of Nautilus<\/p>\n

cheap seats somewhere behind the lungs,
\nrising bellows next to the old lady
\nwho has taken out her teeth,
\nflashing gums and smiles,
\noffering sweets to the other submariners
\nwho’ve left for the on-board bar,
\nsquid juice and tonic with a dash of bitters,
\ndiscussing politics, debt, the cost of babysitters,
\nI turn over, trying to get comfortable
\nwhilst sleeping sitting up,
\nshe says, sorry, my fault, maybe should
\nhave splurged on a cup of chowder for the trip,
\ndon’t worry, I smile, in a while
\nwe have to rest a bit for the journey ahead,<\/p>\n

ribs like palm fronds arc
\ntowards the midday sun,
\nguarding tender souls within<\/p>\n

but instead,
\njump ship for an albatross who
\nwas an anarchist, flew for himself,
\ndidn’t have a boss, was a freelance
\naerial photographer doing a piece on
\nthe human beast as seen from above,
\nlook like fat, fleshy blobs, he said
\nwith a mouth full of chewing tobacco
\nand a grin that was gripping, the way
\nwe hung to his legs, he almost left us
\nfor dead on Krakatoa, but came back,
\nhe needed the company,
\nwe got off at the next stop anyway.<\/p>\n

so loud heard from one
\nthousand miles away, a baby
\nsleeps through, unbothered<\/p>\n

Don’t like economic boom so skipped Asia
\nwhilst looking for a phone box
\nto call my mom, tell her to send clean socks
\nand not forget to feed the cat,
\nvote democrat, and pay for the cataract surgery,
\nshe reminds me, mom’s dead,
\nyou just left a message for the tranny
\nwho moved into her flat, but kept
\nthe same number in case Avon
\ncame calling, he likes cosmetics
\nand banal chatter, not a bad guy really,
\nhe might send socks, weirder things
\nhave happened recently.<\/p>\n

oasis springs up \u00a0
\nand sinks again, hide and seek
\nin mirage clothing<\/p>\n

Desert sandstorm brought the post
\nwrapped in brown paper, heavy weight,
\nhe said, sorry I’m late, got caught
\nup in a bar fight in Mogadishu,
\ndrunks with Kalashnikovs, damn near
\nblew me in two, wouldn’t have made it to you
\nwith this package from some guy named Fred,
\nhey, I said, the tranny sent the socks,
\nthey were clean with a note that read,
\nenjoy the tube socks, again, sorry your mom
\nis dead, thanks for letting me keep her clothes,
\nah, she says, those, yes, he’s most welcome to those.<\/p>\n

floral print drapes hang
\nabove the sofa draped in folks \u00a0
\nmourning tuna snack bites<\/p>\n

Bedouin hookers light up the night
\nwith fluorescent rave sticks whilst
\nblasting psychedelic caterwauling camel
\nsongs that remind me of New York in \u201883,
\nremember, I said, the parties, the clubs, the blow,
\nshe says no, you were only ten,
\nliving on a sheep farm only just
\ndiscovering beating your meat as you dreamt
\nof redheads bent over your lap,
\nyou woke up with creamy sheets.
\nYou’re right, I yell, yes, it must have
\nbeen a movie I’d seen with hookers
\nand camels and clubs and lights and
\ndeath of disco, pre-AIDS sex, people
\nstill listened to T-Rex, bang a gong,
\nget it on, and the camels just grunt
\nas the hookers shunt us out of the way
\nto make room for more passing trade.<\/p>\n

shoes full of sand,
\nworn thin from walking, like eyes
\nafter fitful dreams<\/p>\n

Not another ocean, she says, dead
\ntired, had to walk two thousand miles
\nwithout any preparation H,
\npiles of black market bones marked
\nthe way to the beach, lets just float
\nand see if we reach the other side, ok?
\nWe do and six years later wash up in New Jersey,
\nlets get a beer I suggest, drinking in a no name
\nbar with a kid strangling a guitar in the corner,
\nthe next local rock star, Springsteen, Bon Jovi,
\nhey, what’s your name, kid, I say,
\nMr. Claude Debussy he replies,
\nwhat’s yours, he wants to know,
\nI haven’t thought about it in so long
\nIt takes me a while and another three of his songs
\nBefore I get the words to come out right,
\nCowboy, I say, on a steel horse I ride,
\nHe snickers, man, your too old and not bold
\nEnough, he scoffs, just go somewhere else,
\nLike Florida, sleep off the rest of your life,
\nTake your wrinkled, sunburnt wife,
\nThe world’s moved on, get your ragged shoes
\nand go, just go.
\nSo, we do.<\/p>\n

\"daveo.jpg\"
\nABOUT THE AUTHOR<\/strong>
\nDavid E. Oprava<\/a> writes, because he has to. He is terrified of what will happen otherwise. It makes him prolific. He has been in over thirty journals online and in print and his first full-length book of poems, VS.<\/strong>, is due to be released in mid-October by Erbacce Press. When he isn’t writing he is battling against his raging sobriety and trying to live up to the high moral expectations of husbandhood, fatherhood, and humanhood. Not necessarily in that order and not necessarily succeeding.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\"daveo.jpg\"It was the west that won,
\nthe rest are just people scurrying around
\nunder the light bulb filament sun,
\none hundred four degrees in the shade
\nalmost boiling the lemonade of the kid
\nwho ran in to tell his mom
\nthe libertines had come to town <\/p>\n

By David E. Oprava<\/b>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":119,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3484","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3484","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/119"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3484"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3484\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3484"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3484"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3484"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}