Holster’s empty and the Sun is still out. Never once would the night think of any of us if we did not fly through it under the cover of reckless abandon or survival's shrill call. When will the dusks of velour stop?

Thick and bellowed out the happiness is only something she can give. Wrapped in the second hand’s grasp and never once thought of when the next year could or would be there. Tangled and wrangled up in silver and non sense. Never once a glance back, except on those days that don’t shine into dreams and hypnotic distraction as well as others that blind.

Don’t look Zek, keep your eyes closed.

The daylight looking forward to the sleepys being knocked from eye corners clenched in denial. Fall and crumble in the dissent. Never once even thought to survive. Trouble overflowing in those shut eyes.

Bad man with a horse singing what he hopes is a song to the ears that hear it. Holster’s still empty. Swagger in and to and fro. Humpty frolic romping from the saucy ass saunter of the tired steed. Do that ass ballet. The kind that shuts eyes in alleys where the heat is too hot to bear. Bare it all from soul to stockings. Wet and net are the most pleasant of senses. As windows slam shut and lights glare the night into a false day that screams for reckoning.

Stare me down and the Huckleberry is called. Look out Zek, you never, ever know. Ever.

Politics swamp footed in my peripheral muck. Get a rake. Waiting with the anticipation of Monday as the thoughts will explode like adolescent mirror poking, pinching, pricking, and popping. Music could never be loud enough. It can never be too cold. Butter the bread for yourself. Use the right knife. More tea is acceptable. Look both ways and back again before you cross. Everyone always forgets “back again”.

I need five hundred, all with fans a’ swayin’, to cool down now. Look out for the singular horseman. More tragedy than four is one with a vendetta. The only gift we all hate to receive is revenge. Look out for horseshoe crabs when adorned to one’s skull and not the wharf.

That caveman is calling Zek for steak. The BBQ burns brightly. Enough to melt honey.

Pry my ankle from the trap and move on forward. Eyes shut. Wide, tall, and crimped. Sockets of denial. What is left after the questions are answered? What will they shop for then? The Mall’s plastic and chromium melting into toxic play dough. Smell the can. Before you leave the farm, put down the dog and gunny sack the cat. Leave not even one smothering coal.

Ranches dusty and dirty with the mire of what we wish to forget but it happens day in and day out. Sweat makes mud and the beer is warm. Can you taste the skin? Warm. To think of nothing better would be the days result. Simple. Like plain biscuits with tea.

Swallow hard because you don’t know. You don’t even see a smidgen. I can taste the disconnect. Slappin’ around in semi solid hops. Burnt bean breakfast makes the gag come hard and the heat of full Sun sweat is hours down the throat of day as it gags with elicit evasion. No sweat is worse than the cleansing sweat. Get a mop, the beans weren’t good.

Custodial sawdust and the fog on the glass makes the bar come back like bitters as a hang over cure. Ice. Tall glass. We need more sawdust.

Happy to pack those bags on haunch of trot and move on through the prairie cosine by night’s chin tickle. Better than the dust. Nicer than the paid arms of never again. Easier. Sweeter. Softer. Giggle at the plunder. Cards were never sharper.

I know Monday will come and rescue me. Take me in a blanket and make the politics sing. Not now. It’s too much fun to be away. Away from the words, the headlines, the heated exchange. Turn down the burner, the pot’s boiling over.

Just a hiatus. Just a break. Better get back up in that saddle and ride ‘em high and wide.

Never like before but better beyond the being …