I Hear Dead Cowboys Whistling


Late night moon, you telling me suhm-em?

Following me, making me follow you

Knowing Bob Dylan been talkin’ ‘bout those trench coats on the radio, watching you, watching me.

I feel the tingle, the pull, the soothing lunar draw, a drawl most southern, now that we’re in the country;

Dirt roads and pack rats,

Coyotes and weed;

Midnight chimes sounding like a dead man whistling a hundred years ago, songs of the Wild West, west of the Mississipp, somewhere far from the Mason-Dixon Line;

A trail of turquoise-blue gold, mined for Mayan kings and fancy jewelry boxes on Fifth Avenue .

Is it simply the Lemonade-Amnesia; or my Walker Kush enabling these rustic psychic memories?

There’s that dead cowboy again, pied piping from Enzo’s Arroyo.

“Come Papa come,” meet me at Bandit’s Pass. At last,

we’ll be reunited.