A practice session

[Wat_Tyler]

Cormac be damned



Cormac, you old fuck!
You old dead fuck.
Hell, we all knew it had to happen.
Your death, that is.
Whether you believed it would happen or not.
Allah calls that shot.
I would hate to be as vague as you.
Death is the ultimate eventuality.

I was messaging with a woman.
This has been years ago.
Good looking, smart, taught literature
At some second-rate college down the road.
You know the kind of school
The sort that the pretentious look down their noses on.
And on the alumni.

“Couldn’t you get into anywhere decent?”

In some cases, we reckon not.

Well, the professor mentioned a few current writers,
And you were one of them.
I was honest with her.
I am generally honest,
Especially starting out.
It’s so lame to get off on the wrong foot.

And I responded to her,
“Cormac who?”

She never replied to that note, or the one after, either.

So I Googled you.
And I went to Barnes and Noble.
I paid you to find out a bit about you.
At least I hope you got paid.

What the motherfuck is it with you and punctuation?
I agree, I hated learning that shit.
I think it was in middle school,
Maybe seventh and/or eighth grades.
How to write conversation.
What motherfucking side of the quotation mark is the period anyway???
I’ll give you credit.
You didn’t have to remember,
Because you just didn’t use quotes.

Of course, you wind up fucking your readers that way.
Proper fucked.
Skull fucked.
And I couldn’t tell you I had to revisit and reread one of your fucking paragraphs
I think it was in Blood Meridian
Maybe half a dozen times to sort out
Who said what to whom.
One reason that Allah has taken you.

And the violence and gore.
For the love of Sweet Baby Jesus, man!
Hey Zeus!
That guy who crawled back to town
Because the savages had skinned the soles of his feet.
That had been me and I ever healed,
Got over it,
I’d have made it a point to hunt them down
One at a time
And then spend three weeks:


Killing


Each


One


Excruciatingly


Slowly . . . .


I ain’t never met the woman
Worth getting cut to ribbons over
In some barrio knife fight
Amid the spilled cerveza and piss and puke,
Adding to the stench of human leftovers.
No, not after the invention of gunpowder, anyway.
“No, cabron, you can have her.”


You see, Dipshit?
It’s not that fucking difficult.


I’ll be back with Colonel Colt
In the biggest caliber available.


And your fucking psychopaths!!!
Javier Bardem did Anton so well
That he’s earned a death sentence.
If I ever meet him,
I’ll put three in his face.
Just in case.
Biggest caliber available.

And that freak.
The judge - judge of nothing!
Buttfucked that kid
While drowning him in the outdoor shitter.
After all the other smarmy shit he did.
And he got to walk away.
They both did.
Fucking nutjobs!!!

Sick.

Twisted.

Depraved!!!


You have to be pretty fucked up
To think that shit up, motherfucker.


Ask me how I know . . . .


So I never got to do the professor.
And I have twisted characters in my psyche,
My memory.
Psychotic stain on
The coal black lump
that passes for my soul.
So Allah sent his minions
To come to collect you
And take you home to him.
In case you were cold and had chills
In your old and declining years,
I trust that Allah will keep you quite warm
In the toasty corner of Islamic Hell.
Where the fires burn a little hotter,
And Eternity lasts a bit longer.
Who knows?
I may join you . . . .


Because it can,
And we are not Allah.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Don’t work for fat people



Seriously.
Just don’t.
Now, we’re not talking about people who are a tad overweight
Shit, most of America qualifies
as obese in this day and age.
We eat too much,
Wank too much,
Fuck off too much,
Do nothing too much,
And do everything too damned little.


And almost all of us have to work.
Hell, eating is nice.
So is a roof,
A/C when it’s hot out
And heat when it’s not.
And it’s still not legal to go for a stoll
In your Birthday Suit.
There’s a sight
I only want to see
In very select circumstances.
Just don’t waste your money
On so much crap
You don’t fucking need.
If there’s a trendy name for the product,
You can easily live better without it.


Bosses are about getting shit done.
People hire on to companies,
But they quit managers.
You agree to sell your time
For X amount of dollars.
How long did it take you last time
To start to bitch about how they were underpaying you?
First 90 days???
Hey fuckstick!!!
You made the deal.


If you do weird shit
Like show up on time
Ready to work
And work
And learn
And don’t talk back
Or get confused about your job.
They pay us to do,
And not for what we think.
You do these things and are good,
Someone will notice.


Maybe . . . .


But the fat ones are threatened.
I’m not sure why,
But my tubs of lard always were.
So they clamp down on the thumbscrews,
Want more than before,
Bitch and complain
About stuff could be better.
Take credit for what you thought
Or more than likely for what you did.


And you find out.
And get mad.
Hell, this is where
Problem drinking excuses are created.
“If you had my boss,
You’d drink too!”


Fear keeps us tethered to a fucking job we hate.
What will I do if I lose it???
Easy.
You’ll do the very things you should have done when you decided
That you hated the motherfucker.
Knock the dust off you resume,
Get out the turd polish,
Buff that damned thing up,
Put it out there,
And do what you did before you took this situation.
Get hired!!!


Elsewhere . . . .

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Telly, you silly goof!!!



You're in the barn.
It's dark back there,
in your corner.
That's where you often go
to stand near the old car.
I knew you'd be there
when I pulled in this afternoon.
You saw me,
and stood
and stared
and you would not come.
You raised your left front hoof.
Foot of yours.
Picked it up and put it down.
Finally, you budged,
and you were favoring it.
I didn’t know what to do,
So I gave you an apple
And told you that Mom’s coming home soon.
I hope it helped.
She did, so I told her.
Then I was shown how to clean a hoof
And what to put on it.
Then your back foot was sore, too.
It’s almost as easy to do two as one.
And it was done,
But you weren’t done.
Held up the front foot again,
Almost with a glint in your eye.
Dumb animal my ass!!!

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Baby Bird


Dear little bird with broken wings
You ring me up to tell me things
About how Life ran into the ditch
About your work, that you’re not rich
That your things do not go as planned
Now it appears that you’re being canned
From a job that you thought was yours
Good pay for doing mindless chores
Supervised by those who do not care
Except when time comes that you’re there
But this decision they have not wrought
Higher ups decreed your future bought
They will not give you time to think
And now you have succumbed to drink
Focused thought on board the whiskey train
A feat hard won by sober brain
A plea for help, at least you asked
And we shall aid you in the task
A plan to follow, course of action
Some things to help you gain some traction
To get a grip in this seeming woe
You not quite sure which way to go
We get it. We’ve been here before.
And we are subject to be here more
And again, and anew, for Life goes on
Battles lost, and triumphs won
But mostly just surviving now
In spite often not knowing how
You asked for help, that part is certain
So this is not the final curtain.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Wet Feet



Jesus, Mary and Joseph!!!
Fuck me to tears,
I fucking hate wet feet!!!
Hate with a passion,
A capital H.
Like when it rains
And you can’t do anything about the fact
That you have to get from here to there.
Outside.
In the wet.
Downpours, puddles, splashes.
You step where it should be barely deeper than your soul is thick,
And your soul is having a Doubtful Moment.
The puddle is deep.
You have on your gym shoes.
Fabric.
Non-waterproof fabric.
Unless the water in on the inside
Which is now is,
And all in your non-waterproof socks, too.

Motherfucker!!!

Slog.
Slosh.
Squish.
Bother, as Pooh would say.

As the old saying goes,
Some days, you can’t win for losing.
Soggy armpits and ball sweat are annoying,
But I don’t walk on those.


The absolute worst:
You are out riding your bike.
Motorcycle.
Harley fucking Davidson.
And the rain arrives.
You keep going because
You’re not a pussy,
So you keep going.
And it keeps raining.
Continues.
It doesn’t relent.
Your pants get wet
Because the water is beating into your lower legs
And on the tops of your thighs.
Driven through the fabric.
Wet to your skin.


Where does all this water go?
Gravity says,
Down the fleshy bits
To the insides of

Your

Waterproof

Boots.

That’s right.
Your lovely boots are now
Acting to water
Like the Maginot Line
Acted to the Wehrmacht.

Stepping into a stream
Deeper than your hiking boots are tall
Is simply the same thing
More suddenly.
At least the motorcycle boots
Don’t squish because
You’re not walking.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Dark Spot



Night Time.
Hot, thick and clinging,
A pea soup swim
Inside.
Confused clarity
Self annoyance.
A snarl, and then
Realization.
Rosy-fingered Dawn is coming.
She always does.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Conjuring



Busy head
Not a monkey mind
But full of noise
Nothing loud
Just . . . sounds
Long work weeks
Everything familiar
Same work
With new people
Different town
Same residents
Different faces
Same complaints
And always the one
Who has decided
To be miserable
Nothing will do
Not good enough
Always the one
Decent work
Glad to have it
Just settling in
Months to go
Before it’s Old Hat
Meanwhile
Brain feels like prey
Change
Our only constant

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Hurry springtime



It is very
March here
Cold toes
Runny nose
Chilly back
That cold feeling
On the backs
Of one’s hands
So cold it burns
Eiskalt
Gloves or no gloves
Tingling cheeks
Never the right hat
Frosty eartips
At last, some sun
A touch of warmth
A bit more brightness
An improvement
As morning progresses
Jacket shed at lunchtime
Very March
Very much not spring
Not yet
Just a bit longer . . . .

 

[Wat_Tyler]

To Create



You cannot flip me like a switch
You cannot make me be your bitch
I will not organize your brain
I don’t exist to ease your pain
No wordy drivel or mindless patter
I’m not driven not that it matters
You want to say that which you see?
But you are you and I am me
I will allow you when I start
It will be as from your heart
It won’t be that you tried alone
It will have structure, flesh and bone
I will not let you write lame crap
No wordy drivel is on tap
Just know if we are not aligned
Your stuff will suck, you’ll lose your mind
If you will wait and join with me
You’ll write good stuff, just wait and see
I don’t always come when beckoned
By now on this you should have reckoned
That you know me well as you can
You are my bitch, Sam I Am.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Denisovan Utopia


Have you ever stopped to think
How ridiculous mankind is?
Seriously, who are we kidding?
We think we are all that, and more
Important in every way
That what we think matters
That what we do is monumental
What a fucking joke!
Building projects we don’t understand
We credit to space aliens
Things on the Earth
Which we can’t fathom
We create theories which are
Rushes to judgement
When we know maybe one percent
Of what there is to know,
Like discussing the burial habits
Of Neanderthals
They left no written record
I suspect they are glad of that
We couldn’t read it anyway
Suspecting they had the right idea
When they lay down and went extinct
Civilization seems to be
Such a very raw deal.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Going Away



Packing for a trip
A trip for one
What to take and what to leave
Circled wagons
Minimized existence
Cleaning our closets
Emptying the attic
Clearing those treasures
From the basement
Tossing those things
That we meant to fix
Knowing we never will
A life spent hoarding
People, things, and memories
They do not pack well
None of it
It all reduces
To carry on luggage
And TSA will keep the bag.

I know you hurt
You have hurt for years
I’ve had some pain
Bone pain
And it sucks out loud
I have no doubt
You’re at wit’s end
Over and done
Fed up with it all
Ready to go
Plans to move on
When Providence will have you
Circled wagons
Minimized existence
Cleaned out closets
And empty attics.

The world is too loud
The clutter too bright
When noise in the background
Moves into the foreground
I cannot understand
I get some components
I try to understand
I want to
But lacking experience
I cannot
I am not able
I don’t have what it takes
And that frustrates me
To exasperation
Circled wagons
Minimized existence
Cleaned out closets
And empty attics
Strongly, my ego dislikes
Being set on the curb

 

[Wat_Tyler]

You got here


Brought other stuff
590 Caterpillar
18-speed 'Ranger
Noisy exhaust
Smell of diesel
In the bright sunshine
Geese in the smoking area
Which one is their brand?

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Poor child out in the rain


Poor child out in the rain
Not sure why
Uncertain how long
Feeling the victim
Convinced this is something
He does not deserve
Trying to deduce
Where the wheels fell off
And when, no idea
A cold wind blows
Drops at an angle
Pushed hard through cotton
Driving, stinging, soaking
A poor child,
No doings of his,
Out in this mess.

Mother won’t
Open the door….

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Is it better?



Hell, I don’t know
Not sure what it is
Not sure what is it
I came
Thought I could do better
No chance back home
My port of origin
Was simply that
I pushed very hard
To get where I am
Here, and now
This place
Exhaustion
Can I do it?
Or will I fail?
Mere inches
From the finish line . . . .

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Stroke



Oh, you’ve had one.
There you lie on the floor
On your side, looking at me
With your hate-filled judgmental eyes.
Yet, you cannot move.
Pity that.
Hope it hurts . . . .

 

[Wat_Tyler]

I choose to use words
so I don't have to paint you
a fucking picture.




I choose to use words
in order that I can paint
a picture for you.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

You stand, watchfully

She’s not here
She nested
Sitting on eggs
Having picked
A secure spot
I salute her choice
Inside the fence
At the retention pond
Above the waterline
Smart girl
She’s busy, and you’re lonely
But this is how
There will be geese
For now
Seemingly forever more
Be patient
Soon, there will be
Goslings to guard
Welcome to your life

 

[Wat_Tyler]

At arm’s length



There are reasons, myriad,
Why you must stay there.
Yes, I know,
I offered to help you,
But in so do,
You are killing me.
You are truly
A vampire of the soul.
You suck out what is good,
You provide nothing in return,
And you’re oblivious.
No, it’s not that I am needy.
That is your purview,
Your domain, that which you survey,
Cluelessly, to the decay,
The rot, the mold, the stink.
When I help those
Who wish to be helped,
Those who wish change,
Who will it with their might,
Who have given up
On their old way,
They just need to be pointed
In the right direction.
You? You’re unconvinced.
There is no way but yours.
And your way of doing things
Which has brought you to this.
You ask for help,
Claim that you want it,
And then won’t do as we have done.
Is there supposed to be
A bolt from the heavens
With Your Name on it???
What the mother fuck???
Oh, that’s it!!!
You never got the point, did you?
Life on Planet Earth
Is
Not
All About You . . . .

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Southwest


There’s something to the southwest.
The old white horse
Would go to that end
Of the pasture,
Alone,
And he’d stand quietly
And look off in that direction,
At the piece of land
Across the road that
Divided our place there.
At the new parcel.
He’d do this every day.
Perhaps it’s more accurate
To say that I saw him do this
Most days.
He’d look at something
Yet nothing was there,
Or was there?
Maybe it’s the Next Direction of Travel.
The sun sets there.
He usually would look that way
In the morning
With the sun at his back.
So I got so, when I could,
I would go and stand with him.
He’d acknowledge me
And then resume his
Southwesting.
One morning, it was clear
What he was looking at.
Ten very small deer
Were passing through
On that side of the road.
He looked at me as to say,
“See, I told you.
Either you cannot hear
Or you do not listen.”

In time, the alpha horse
Started to go with him
And they’d stand staring,
Being beckoned.
Pondering

The white horse died last year
In April. And the alpha
Died in July.
White horse is buried
West, across the road
And Alpha on the East.
I planted a post at the alpha’s grave.
For them both, really.
And I painted it
And then stood and stared.
How long? I have no idea.
But there is much to do.
Always much to do
Between the considerings
Of Things Southwest.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Somewhere


Somewhere a child
Is being crippled
Forced into a mold
Created by his parents
Frustrated
And unfulfilled aspirations
The horrid part
Worst of all
Is that he’s being
Given the wrong tools
To attempt
To make it so
Crushed creativity
Hours toiling for what bores him.
Potbound flowers
In dark corners
Leading to
The psychiatrists office
Online affairs
Boring jobs
And dull friends
All of the if onlies
The what ifs
And might have beens
Problem drinking
Anti-depressants
More children
Being raised by screens
With nowhere to go.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Inspired



Or not
Things to say
Sound like blather
Thoughts
Refuse to gel
Feelings
Masquerade as
Important ideas
Sounds are
Cacophonous
Ideas fade
To blurs
Focus is
Not an option
No matter my want
Wish in one hand
Shit in the other
See which fills first.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Emotionally unavailable


That’s what you said
In our chat
In your kitchen
In your house
Anal-retentive decoration
A place for everything
And everything in its place
You brought it up
I didn’t ask you
I thought to
And didn’t
You thought, too
Apparently
And then announced
“I’m emotionally unavailable”
A new concept to me
then
Yet a long time condition
Now named
For years
I thought you meant yourself
But no.
You were right about me . . . .

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Distrust



We’ve had this talk
You said you would
Do what we agreed
You said
You didn’t
Again
Damn it!

 

[Wat_Tyler]

https://poeticoutlaws.substack.com/...e&r=5pvln&triedRedirect=true&utm_medium=email

O, We Are The Outcasts​

By: Charles Bukowski​

Jun 13, 2025

ah, christ, what a CREW:
more
poetry, always more
P O E T R Y .

if it doesn't come, coax it out with a
laxative. get your name in LIGHTS,
get it up there in
8 1/2 x 11 mimeo.

keep it coming like a miracle.

ah christ, writers are the most sickening
of all the louts!
yellow-toothed, slump-shouldered,
gutless, flea-bitten and
obvious . . . in tinker-toy rooms
with their flabby hearts
they tell us
what's wrong with the world-
as if we didn't know that a cop's club
can crack the head
and that war is a dirtier game than
marriage . . .
or down in a basement bar
hiding from a wife who doesn't appreciate him
and children he doesn't
want
he tells us that his heart is drowning in
vomit. hell, all our hearts are drowning in vomit,
in pork salt, in bad verse, in soggy
love.
but he thinks he's alone and
he thinks he's special and he thinks he's Rimbaud
and he thinks he's
Pound.

and death! how about death? did you know
that we all have to die? even Keats died, even
Milton!
and D. Thomas-THEY KILLED HIM, of course.
Thomas didn't want all those free drinks
all that free pussy-
they . . . FORCED IT ON HIM
when they should have left him alone so he could
write write WRITE!

poets.

and there's another
type. I've met them at their country
places (don't ask me what I was doing there because
I don't know).

they were born with money and
they don't have to dirty their hands in
slaughterhouses or washing
dishes in grease joints or
driving cabs or pimping or selling pot.

this gives them time to understand
Life.

they walk in with their cocktail glass
held about heart high
and when they drink they just
sip.

you are drinking green beer which you
brought with you
because you have found out through the years
that rich bastards are tight-
they use 5 cent stamps instead of airmail
they promise to have all sorts of goodies ready
upon your arrival
from gallons of whisky to
50 cent cigars. but it's never
there.
and they HIDE their women from you-
their wives, x-wives, daughters, maids, so forth,
because they've read your poems and
figure all you want to do is fuck everybody and
everything. which once might have been
true but is no longer quite
true.

and-
he WRITES TOO.
POETRY, of
course. everybody
writes
poetry.

he has plenty of time and a
postoffice box in town
and he drives there 3 or 4 times a day
looking and hoping for accepted
poems.

he thinks that poverty is a weakness of the
soul.

he thinks your mind is ill because you are
drunk all the time and have to work in a
factory 10 or 12 hours a
night.

he brings his wife in, a beauty, stolen from a
poorer rich
man.
he lets you gaze for 30 seconds
then hustles her
out. she has been crying for some
reason.

you've got 3 or 4 days to linger in the
guesthouse he says,
"come on over to dinner
sometime."
but he doesn't say when or
where. and then you find out that you are not even
IN HIS HOUSE.

you are in
ONE of his houses but
his house is somewhere
else-
you don't know
where.

he even has x-wives in some of his
houses.

his main concern is to keep his x-wives away from
you. he doesn't want to give up a
damn thing. and you can't blame him:
his x-wives are all young, stolen, kept,
talented, well-dressed, schooled, with
varying French-German accents.

and!: they
WRITE POETRY TOO. or
PAINT. or
fuck.

but his big problem is to get down to that mail
box in town to get back his
rejected poems
and to keep his eye on all the other mail boxes
in all his other
houses.

meanwhile, the starving Indians
sell beads and baskets in the streets of the small desert
town.

the Indians are not allowed in his houses
not so much because they are a fuck-threat
but because they are
dirty and
ignorant. dirty? I look down at my shirt
with the beerstain on the front.
ignorant? I light a 6 cent cigar and
forget about
it.

he or they or somebody was supposed to meet me at
the
train station.

of course, they weren't
there. "We'll be there to meet the great
Poet!"

well, I looked around and didn't see any
great poet. besides it was 7 a.m. and
40 degrees. those things
happen. the trouble was there were no
bars open. nothing open. not even a
jail.

he's a poet.
he's also a doctor, a head-shrinker.
no blood involved that
way. he won't tell me whether I am crazy or
not-I don't have the
money.

he walks out with his cocktail glass
disappears for 2 hours, 3 hours,
then suddenly comes walking back in
unannounced
with the same cocktail glass
to make sure I haven't gotten hold of
something more precious than
Life itself.

my cheap green beer is killing
me. he shows heart (hurrah) and
gives me a little pill that stops my
gagging.
but nothing decent to
drink.

he'd bought a small 6 pack
for my arrival but that was gone in an
hour and 15
minutes.

"I'll buy you barrels of beer," he had
said.

I used his phone (one of his phones)
to get deliveries of beer and
cheap whisky. the town was ten miles away,
downhill. I peeled my poor dollars from my poor
roll. and the boy needed a tip, of
course.

the way it was shaping up I could see that I was
hardly Dylan Thomas yet, not even
Robert Creeley. certainly Creeley wouldn't have
had beerstains on his
shirt.

anyhow, when I finally got hold of one of his
x-wives I was too drunk to
make it.

scared too. sure, I imagined him peering
through the window-
he didn't want to give up a damn thing-
and
leveling the luger while I was
working
while "The March to the Gallows" was playing over
the Muzak
and shooting me in the ass first and
my poor brain
later.

"an intruder," I could hear him telling them,
"ravishing one of my helpless x-wives."

I see him published in some of the magazines
now. not very good stuff.

a poem about me
too: the Polack.

the Polack whines too much. the Polack whines about his
country, other countries, all countries, the Polack
works overtime in a factory like a fool, among other
fools with "pre-drained spirits."
the Polack drinks seas of green beer
full of acid. the Polack has an ulcerated
hemorrhoid. the Polack picks on fags
"fragile fags." the Polack hates his
wife, hates his daughter. his daughter will become
an alcoholic, a prostitute. the Polack has an
"obese burned out wife." the Polack has a
spastic gut. the Polack has a
"rectal brain."

thank you, Doctor (and poet). any charge for
this? I know I still owe you for the
pill.

Your poem is not too good
but at least I got your starch up.
most of your stuff is about as lively as a
wet and deflated
beachball. but it is your round, you've won a round.
going to invite me out this
Summer? I might scrape up
trainfare. got an Indian friend who'd like to meet
you and yours. he swears he's got the biggest
pecker in the state of California.

and guess what?
he writes
POETRY
too!

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Calypso at the Gate



Danish warmblood. Blood bay.
So what? You’re a fucking horse!!!
Seventeen hands thereabout,
so you’re kinda big,
Medium brown,
A couple of white feet, back feet,
A star and a stripe on your long nose bridge,
Nicely shaped head.
But they took your nuts, gelding.
I’ll bet that they didn’t even ask,
And that they didn’t give you anything back, either.
They left you your soul,
And it’s an awfully pretty one, too.
Big eyes, observant, gentle.
Oh, they could be a touch crazed.
They’d open wider and show me the white
Around your big ol’ iris.
“Just who do you think you are, human?
You little shit! Sawed-off human!!!
You’re not my mommy,
You’re not the boss of me!
And you don’t get to
tell me what to do.”
And you would stretch your neck out and lift that
Magnificent big old head
And then look down that very long
Very regal, magnificent nose.


There was that time I had to open
The Large Gate
To get my car out of the yard.
You decided that you - Royal You -
That nothing would be finer than eating grass from the yard.
Maybe the dog poop there
Gives it a spicy tingle.
“Get in their faces,”
She said.
“Get large,” she said.
So I opened the gate and here you came
All 1300 pounds of you.
Leading, as always.
You had that position sewed down.
So I got in your face.
I got large. You stopped, and raised your head.
I was looking at your right eye,
And it got Very Large
As you looked
Way
Down
at
Me.
And you stopped for what seemed like forever.
It was a long second at most.
And then you moved.
You feinted left,
So the human went right
And then he went to school.
You see - you knew.
Horses are Very Big
And they have Long Legs.
Four Of Them.
You moved right
And the human moved left
And was greeted by air.
I had gone two steps and you
Had gone 12 feet.
Clippity clop, off right tackle,
Followed by your merry band of
Equine Assholes.
I called the lot of you
Every sort of Motherfuckers
That I could think of.
You weren’t even listening.
You got what you wanted.
Lawn Grass.
You were corralled and safe
As I got out the car
And shut the gate behind us.
Swishing tail,
Flicking ears,
A snort,
The sounds of tearing grass.
Two Legged Control Freak.
We showed him.


Christmas. There was Christmas that year
And you overate some hay
And it stuck in your throat.
For those who don’t know,
Large Pasture Poodles
Don’t make much saliva
and they have mile long esophaguses.
Esophagi??? Hmmm, maybe.
For a cat, it would be a hairball.
For you, it was a hayball.
You can’t swallow it
And you can’t cough it out.
Your snack is trying to kill you.
Good thing the vet makes barn calls.
You looked really pitiful
And maybe a fair bit afraid, too.
Yeah, I was annoying to you,
But I stayed to help you
The only way I could.
I stayed with you,
A hand on your rump
While they worked on the other end.
A sedative, cinching your muzzle,
A vinyl hose down a nostril,
Listening carefully so as
To push the mass to your stomach
And not into a lung.
It wasn’t their first rodeo.
Yours, either, it turned out.
They got it,
And you were stoned until dawn.
Standing and staring.


And something changed between us.

You look up as I wander into the field.
You see me come into the barn.
Oh, not always, as I’m only as important
As my mind makes up to itself that I am.
You guys could be in pasture
And I’m in the barn staring at something that
Will become a project.
Out of my left periphery
It gets Very Brown
As your head takes its place there.
“Hi, human, whatcha doin’?”
How do you do that?
I find people behind me,
Size, direction and distance.
A predator/prey thing, maybe?
I heard nothing, felt nothing,
But there you were.
Good! You’re kind,
And you’re welcome.

Then I was back and forth working.
Sometimes at your place,
And often, I wasn’t.
I came to visit once
And had projects in the hay house/car barn.
You’d stand outside the door
Sometimes, patiently.
“Hey, human. Whatcha doin’?”
After I left once.
The landlady was out doing something.
The door was open, so you went in.
She saw you backing out.
Looking for the human,
She reckoned.
You were welcome,
But you really didn’t fit.

Horse politics.
Two taller horses,
And two shorter horses.
It was heighticism

You got old.
Hell, you were old before.
Swelling joints,
Balance not 100%.
No pain, but a bit of
Discomfort,
And maybe Uncertainty.
I got to see you.
We went for a walk,
You in your halter
And me, kind of in charge.
We went to see a treeline,
The landlady, you and me.
We talked about pruning
while you sampled the leaves.
It was all new for you there
And you made the most of it,
A fitting lesson for
Sentient Life.
We found clover
While walking back,
And you love/d clover.
I stayed with you while you
Ate all of it.
We crossed the street
And I knew where more was,
So we went
And you ate all of that, too.
I don’t always get to spend
As much time with Wonderful Souls,
So I took every moment
We had.