There are certain people

I don’t want to see

they are always catching me, like a social sport

I am caught-up in traffic, before the work day

I am caught-up in their tedious affairs

buried by my own business—

an archeological dig inside my truck

layers of grocery bags, and lost lunches that begin to smell

I socialize with strangers—they aren’t very strange

it’s my lack of interest, but they all seem the same.

I fantasize about starting fires, and giving cars, something to really complain about

Honking Horns?

Molotov Cocktails for Happy Hour

and my Machine-gun laughter—as I abandon my vehicle

running down the center lane of traffic—like a drunk proving his sobriety

details close in, like a collage of lost hopes

like a kaleidoscope, of blurry dreams

causing my headache to spin—my star-struck visions of madness.

If losing touch with reality is comforting

the couch-potato cowboy rides the open-ranges in his living room

with no enemy to kill, but himself.

He needs to cut barbwire and break the law

because the open ranges are closed.

He is defined by petty society

without his permission

and he seeks his own definition

but the world won’t read him

and he is reading the same story

 looking for something stranger

than himself.

13 thoughts on “Fences, and Mad Cowboy Disease

  1. A good read. Sometimes I can empathize, sometimes not as we (I) make good of what I can and leave the others to decay in their trendy attire at their “in” restaurants, swilling their “all-too-posh” libations.

    Liked by 1 person

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