Once upon a time, a peaceable kingdom
saw old No Name’s ultimate good luck:
a miraculous draft of fishes splitting
from the backyard shit piñata.
He said: “The rectum is a grave,
what we do is secret.”
Said Angel: “I'll say, trouble every day
in my mind. When the lone sheep defends itself,
there goes the whole venerable tradition
of failure and then some.”
Down Lackadaisical Route, the rivers are streets,
not a picnic is cancelled, only left to float. Tipping
ten gallon hats, they toast: “To that goat-legend leading
where you'll never put your fingers when I'm gone.”
Angel did it: wrestled the barrel, the sun-rot fish
put away. Tumbleweed tumbling, alike along drifting.
In this paradise ark, the one with no name plays strong.
“For the last time: I'm not asking your name, only
to clear this dead treasure quick, like
your match-lighter shooting
And whitely, down
one went. “Harmonica, you've got a way with graves.”
Gloving the rocks, not a surprise. Another Sunday burning
bright with hill sage, the high noon sun rolling wide
where they stood, six feet deep.
“Harmonica, you're just pure service. No
lockbox, all intimacy. Whadaya say after today
we etch this robbed grotto onto our hearts,
x-mark a clear structure, for the new generation?”
Harmonica barely descanting: “Yeah, all them young birds
with revolution on their minds. Just reckless gravity
In America, several times, we saw it on the news:
a tussle at the convenience store, one
nameless, another tuneless, and the other
without mouth or wings. Can't tell you why, but
they all became somewhat as follows:
bad then ugly then good. And then ugly made better
for the worse. What sense, proved slippery—
“I'll take it,” he said
to the security camera. We supposed it referred
to his own face on the simulcast screen.
“I'll take the well hidden, prying eyes, and all that
no one will ever see behind them.” Blinking.
Grinning. Road smutting. Hand made
free for cuffing. What a magic hour
for waking. To songs too blue to cry.