© Christopher Raine


Wannabe Cowboy Poet


I always wanted to write poetry
about some storied place
like Texas, in a dusty roadside cantina
where life is lived cheap and wild
and there’s a big-titted barmaid
who says something hip and profound
in the context of an old boot
and a caked on mascara wink
Where the dust and scuff marks
on the weathered hardwood floor
could tell you more about life
and the universe
than a philosophy major
tripping on acid or cactus juice
It seems the good shit
is always going on somewhere else
and to someone else,
somewhere I’ve never been
or someplace I’m unlikely to go,
given my frail constitution
I’m not much of a hero these days
or any other day,
driving my cheap desk
to the dusty horizon
of a setting golden sun
As with anywhere and all things
it’s half lie and half truth
and it’s not a place, so much
I want to write about, but a time
Everyone needs a goddamn hero,
but the last one died,
beside an ink-clacking typewriter,
pounding on his nicotine stained keys
and broken old soul