The chintz of night is in the bureau
and takes all seven draws of sky.
Two moonshine breathers – Moon and I,
two pale, as chalk, just painted murals.

My roots are dry, a yarn spins slowly.
I hummer down the pulled up stakes
and raise them high for what it takes
to breed new sanchos, rank them lowly.

The crosses shall be seen all over
erected, anchored in the ground.
I see the temples, banks, and sounds –
saloons and pennies, drinks and bovver.

Who said who’s first – resides as Master,
possessors – ones who bust a gut.
I’m here to heal the prairie’s cut
inflicted by the plow and dusters.

Oh ruthless bigots, come for ointments,
not for the scalp. We’ll drink and feast.
Those bottles make you rest... in peace.
Those balms are blizzards of enjoyment.

After anointed to exhaustion
we might divide the land and chintz
so you could take what draws may tin.
The rest is mine – the pact is Faustian.

A skin has shades, but blood is crimson.
To drink claret, to shed – the same…
Who would remember redskin names?
Who could forget, forgive or blame some..?

I came between the wind and water,
you left as peace-pipes blowing smoke.
And when Saint Martin’s summers spoke
they whispered names of sons and daughters

the last of the Mohicans.

9 November 2009