Pome: Gunslinger In The Village
Kerpow-pow-pow-kerpow
Gunslinger In The Village
he wanted to eat a pinkhued trifle in a village down the coast from Venice
awake one morn to the frost and the blue snow and a caper in the Himalayas of Manali
surf on the beach break off Hikkaduwa hitting the soft sand and the board spinning and cascading in the sunglow of eons
pen an epigram observing the youth observing they do too get older
mark the days of the yellowbanded watch
travel a year in Alaska feeling lonesome
chomp a footlong tomahawk steak in a backroad restaurant in Chicago owned by the coach of the ‘85 Super Bowl victors
get it all down on the page all that he saw will ever see and might not never and run the streets to the alleybar and watch the kid on a first shift pouring drinks under the syruplit lights to the regulars come in out of the autumn air to the warm and welcome of one more passage of time
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