1 Chapter 1

Two Outlaws

We used to run together

Two outlaws running free

But now a steely lawman’s

Replaced the outlaw you used to be

And the friend you were to me.

* * * *

Awake

I lie here, awake,

in the arms of another transient lover,

thinking of you.

Once we were closer than brothers;

now every night I listen, straining to hear

the distant thunder of your guns.

I know they point through the darkness,

their bolts of lightning flashing my name,

each shot aimed at my heart.

I lie here, awake,

a frightened animal hunched

before your torrential storm.

* * * *

Billy #1

This is something I don’t want to do.

You think this is easy for me?

After all the times we’ve had,

all the days in the saddle,

all the nights by your fire?

You think I can just throw away that life

like knocking the dust from my heels,

everything we did together,

everything left to do?

It’s the money I need, the stability,

the clearing of my name.

But I want you to know

if I could change this course I’m on,

I would. If I could

kill anyone else and let you go free,

believe me, Billy,

I would.

* * * *

Wanted Man

Sometimes I just want to lie down where I am

and wait for them to catch me.

But what good would that do?

Where would I be?

The same place I am now—

alone, lonely, lost,

without you.

What’s the use?

The roads are too dangerous if I stay on them

for too long. How many lives have I ruined

by casual theft? Not enough.

Not enough

to make up for their theft of you.

Perhaps if you were “safe” somewhere,

under lock and key,

it would be easier for me.

I know stone walls do not a prison make

unless those walls are

made of wood and buried

six feet under.

Where I should be.

The worst part is I didn’t get to say goodbye.

You told me to run

and I ran,

believing you behind me.

I didn’t even know you were gone until

I crept back to that inconvenience store

under cover of darkness and

driving rain only to find you

etched in chalk,

brilliant under brilliant lights

and beginning to run in the rain.

Now every car looks alike, every license plate

reads to me another day I’m

Not with them

Not with you

Alone.

Everyone who stares too long

at my poster-perfect face

convinces me to follow

your dying command.

I’ve been running on empty too long now

a wanted man.

Sleep is a stranger to me—the only

night I see is that eternal one

your beautiful eyes are closed on.

At my back I hear

death’s insidious whisper.

I can’t outrace the sun— there are

few hiding places left

as yet unspoiled

by my bloody tears.

I have only two bullets left—one

for the lawman who pulled your noose too tight, and one

for me—my ticket to you.

* * * *

This Outlaw Gig

A bottle of magic bought at a grocery store with a small bill

and twenty minutes later a new me rises in the cloudy mirror

of a dingy gas station bathroom.

In another town, in the grip of fear, I go to the mall

and as they sweep up the dyed ends of my cut hair, I drive away.

No one could recognize me now.

I don’t even have an ID that looks like me.

The next state over, I get pulled for speeding

but the car is stolen and without registration

I shoot the officer and peel away—

I’m getting good at this outlaw gig.

Soon I grow tired of driving, of running,

but there’s no where left to go

when half a million dollars begins to drag you down.

* * * *

Cocksure

Cocksure, you swagger into the cantina,

full of yourself, hot from the heat of battle

and proud…unbearably proud.

I loathe you and your sureness, your ease

as you sidle up to the bar, royalty

and not your everyday, common gunslinger.

I loathe your boastful voice, your roaming hands,

your arrogant eyes.

I don’t know whether to wrap my arms

around your neck and strangle the life from you, or

sweep you into a strong embrace and never let you go.

Your wildness excites me and

I loathe myself for that.

Later, in the kitchen, I scrub the pots with angry hands

and hate myself as I listen out for the sound of your voice.

When it whispers in my ear, a hot breath from the desert,

I flush from your closeness, your hands

not quite touching my waist, your body

not quite pressed against mine.

I loathe my reaction.

But my brusqueness doesn’t put you off for here,

at last, stands the one cook’s boy

who doesn’t fall in the wake of your passing,

who doesn’t stumble over himself to bend over for you.