In this space-open-wide, sky is burnished, air is rare, dust is unto.
Ranging earth whirls up, hooves percussing, trail's a-risin’.
And the drive is driven toward
a Chicago abbatoir at the end of the loaned prayerie.
In this wide-eyed, yippie-eye-ay, comma-space, in this spaced
TexiCaliKansas range, there is rounding, there is up,
there is longing, and there's horning.
There is brand-name-recognition
for those steaks and roasts, those drive-in
burgers for burghers, those leather
shoes and boots and belts.
The Infinite Lored Cattle Drive pours/roars on through fissures
twixt history and mountains, unsettlers and originals
and fishers of men and women and beasts and burdens.
Every horse has a history, every cow has a price, every
woman has an axe, every badge has a bullet, every
man has a man saying {Man, you're in my way.}
Unholster your history, it's time to ride. Look over stampede's
boiling nation of hooves and horns. Sunlight mounts a fence.
American women and men stand staring composed upon
a hill without a city. See them, just west of where
they are. Now your great gathered herd
goes all to sky, and the loop of your lasso makes an {O
bury me not. . . .}, and ghost riders burst through clouds.
