Boots

Edging angled to the fall-off crumble bluff, I got her leg
in sweaty grip and tugged to see what weight I'd have to
heft to bring her up.

Now how the fuck I'm going to lift two hundred deadmeat,
muttering t'myself bellydown on shifting rock, shaking
shitnear the unstable edge'll go, her and me and half
Arizona into Noname Canyon, last-stance smokies faking puke
at cascading carcasses abrading god's work of unbeloved
national landmarks of downsizing bureaucracy.

Stop and plan a bit, green beret, breathe in, out.
Coptering-out'll cost a bundle of her dwindling dead-hub
payout.

She'd wedged feet high in the tumble to near-death, barking
a cry falling, which echoed over to me from the wrong
direction to rescue my sole future pension. Thought she'd
gone all the way down at first, beloved will unsigned, then
saw a rippled boot bottom beyond the step-ledge, and stared
at it in ecstacy of relief as brain got off its ass and made 
sense of upside down - her fav position.

A quick toddle, honey, she'd beer-breathed, come on we'll
walk it off and then if I sober up maybe spreadeagle a
tumble for you, toss leg up your back, cram your butt, huh,
you like that, don't you, worm shit, me hooking your
piledriver. Move it, squirtster, not off duty yet.

She'd belched and rumbled from the porch. I cocked eye at
her sway down the trail, almost dark, her arcing bud can at
god's dump, heard her yelp from the sky, like she'd lifted
off, rocks offed, dreamed I was dreaming it, worn frazzled
from answering her calls of nature.

Her leg twitched and shit pea-balled, get a grip, sam, her
leg and own a-hole, lester, don't lose it, she's all you got
to bank, no loose boweling, her bowling head over ass 3000
feet richocheting, guttering down mulepiss chute.

Run the replay, coach: her feet skyward, spit-booted, on her
back, on all-fours, belting commands: ram-jam it, trooper,
obey your CO, hell's hole's agape, jack-drill nitro and fire
it, peter-out and latrine's blackhole home forever, scraping
bowls, slurping scum. Lope that beestinger. Huh. Kiss the
will goodbye, sonny, shit, never sign.

Shake head, wise up, scout, get a line, secure the load, tie
her back and con a twirly-bird lift. Cut'em slack, john,
cut'em in, whisper to'em what she's got tucked, get'em to
tug the load, sign'em up, promise to pay'em when her heels
kicking.

Takes a bunch of penny-slotting to bust a piggy bank.

----------------------------------------------------------

Date: Mon, 26 May 1997 11:49:26 -0400
To: wire@monkey-boy.com
From: John Young <jya@pipeline.com>