The Limestone Cowboy Searches For Cinderella
From a distance I can tell
Limestone has got her rollin'.
His bucket seated, four-barreled,
Holly headed, chrome slotted,
Four-wheel drive Chevy, screaming
for all its pleasure. Coming
right at me, dust vortexing
behind the grey bullet
like a mad-faced angus bull.
I pull partway over into the ditch
and wait. And as he slows
the cowboy reaches down,
then holds up a milk-white
pair of ladies lace panties
for me to witness.
His bare chest sparkles with heat.
I squint through the dust
and get a dim glimpse of myself
in his pilot-styled sunglasses.
"Cinderella," he says.
Explains he found the lingerie,
clean, hanging from a hedge post
two miles back east and a mile
west. Mumbles something
about Fairy Tales being real.
Offers there is no time to waste,
and leaves.
Originally
Published in
ZONE 3, 1987, Winter
The Limestone Cowboy And The Red Rooster
Wednesday morning,
and Limestone, sleeping in,
pulls the sheet up
to his neck, camps a pillow
over his eyes, and lies there
underwater. But the Red Rooster,
the one that cockles with last winter's
sore throat, "What can I do? What
can I do",
till noon everyday
steps out of bounds
beneath Limestone's bedroom window.
The tide goes out.
The cowboy comes to the surface
with the attitude of a linebacker,
borrows a shotgun from beneath the bed,
and tackles his way to the backdoor.
"Die," he draws. His voice spreads
across the yard molten as lava.
Hens scatter like marbles. The rooster
squirts straight up,
and 4 feet above the ground
pops like a hot coal.
Pieces strain through the bushes.
Cats scramble. The dog
goes on point, and Limestone
shuts the door.
Originally
Published in
ZONE 3, 1987, Winter
The Limestone Cowboy Discovers Atlantis
It is August, some late afternoon, and Limestone
and me are idling the back roads, half-gone,
our minds leaned onto a 12-pack of Coors
that sits between us like a best friend. In rhythm
with each beer, we drive deeper into our past,
stare through the hazy windows of our childhood,
or cruise by the abandoned shacks of overheard
stories. Then, just before the last can spins
into the ditch, the cowboy is blessed
with discovery—tells me our ancestors
have been near all along. His Chevy rockets
down the road. My side mirror reflects
the dog, flying in the back, his face streamlined
by the wind, his tongue wet-twisted
to his ears. Dust vortexes across the hot back
of summer, and I am along for the ride.
We stop at the quarry. Limestone gets out slow,
then describes how years ago our grandfather’s
fathers worked here. Explains how someday,
it will be a million. “There ain’t no length to time,”
he lectures. Mystified, the cowboy mumbles
something about Atlantis. Describes how the island
didn’t sink, how the continent of Kansas emerged,
soaked up, flattened out, everything. Surrounded
by fossils, we stand in the pit for what could be ages
listening to the voice of some old ocean. Shuffling
across the pages, Limestone wanders across history.
Rock dust collects on his boots. Briefly, I am abandoned.
The Limestone Cowboy Duels A Stubborn Horse
Sunrise. The cowboy is committed.
And has chosen spurs
that this dirty-spotted pinto
will come to an understanding,
will take its first step
with man. And Limestone,
wanting the animal to see a hero,
walks slow across the corral--
Rolls his shirt sleeves
above his elbows.
Pulls his hat low.
Lets his jeans settle
even lower. Three steps
then four, he revolves around
the barrel of the pinto's
aimed hindquarters.
Their shadows braid. Limestone
steals the horse's eye,
reappears in the saddle
and holds on for tomorrow.
Originally
Published in
ZONE 3, 1987, Winter
The Limestone Cowboy's Luck Runs Out
With the woodburner cracking hot,
our shirts off, and our boots
kicked across the room,
the four of us
sit in Limestone's tack shed---
soak up the smell of warm leather
and horse sweat, deal pinochle,
and work on a case of Coors.
Two dollars up, the cowboy bids
with fishermen's luck, takes the kitty,
draws into aces and melds a run
with a black queen. He is proud.
And reminds us of when he rode
the crazy horse at a full buck
all the way to the creek. His tens
take our tens, and though it's February
the picture on the calendar
describes November. Old horseshoes
are nailed above the dirty window;
mouse tracks lead behind the Norge,
and it might as well be Christmas.
Already Limestone has trumped hearts
when he jumps up, chokes,
and hollers: "Dog fart." He kicks
at the pleased animal, and we all run
out the door, stand there in the cold,
even the dog,
looking in.
Originally
Published in
Bits Press, 1988, Light Year Anthology
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The Limestone Cowboy, Me, And Everything Else
Sit Around A White Man's Campfire
It is summer.
And on the south side of the lake,
west of the quarry,
Limestone and me have built the universe
a center with a butane lighter,
a dirty kleenex, and a good selection
of cottonwood, elm, and oak.
Already there are enough hot coals
for everyone to lose their mind.
We sit way back, let full cans of beer
go to waste. And behind us in the night
butterflies and birds pull up their wings
and sit on the ground. Chiggers line up,
knee to knee, on tall blades of blue-stem.
Crickets kneel, too awed to speak.
Snakes stretch out. Coons and opposums
lean against the legs of deer. Fish
come dangerously close to shore,
and the dog doesn't turn around
before laying down; blue-hot arms
of honed heat shiver
away into the dark. Sparks
defy gravity, and there is a voice
in the fire that we can see telling secrets.
"Louder," the word drops from Limestone's mouth.
I don't need to ask to know
he has confronted the source
of it all. I remember
the fire is hot, and that hours ago
the mosquitos moved out to hover over
the lake. The lift of their wings
together so strong I assume
an eyebrow sized wake
now bends across the water.
We are safe, and I notice Limestone is asleep.
Originally
Published in
ZONE 3, 1987, Winter
Back to Top
The Limestone Cowboy Sees God,
And It's A Woman
Mid-morning, the next day,
after the mud has settled
and the country roads
have turned the color
of smooth-grey,
I drop by Limestone's place.
Find him there on the front step,
barefooted, leaned against the screen door
wearing nothing but Levi's,
his boots at ease on the sidewalk.
And before I ask, Limestone tells me
he's had a vision. "Jesus," I swear.
"No," he replies. "God.
And She's a woman." He says something
about next Sunday, pulls his boots on,
and leads me to the place of revelation.
Two miles east and a mile west
he parks in the middle of the road.
The dog bales out, and we all walk up the hill.
Halfway, the cowboy stops. Points.
I see nothing but a stone post
and a plum bush, together,
planted next to a short tree.
Aware of disbelief
he describes to me how She
was there, last night,
lightning all around Her
--- Her skirt, and hair
wet and windblown in the rain.
A doubter, I stare at the truth.
A believer, Limestone turns
and walks back down the hill.
Originally
Published in
Hawaii Review, 1989, V.13, N.2
The Limestone Cowboy Talks, At Dusk
Finally, from where we sit
on the bent tailgate of Limestone's
pick-up, after three beers
or five, I ask him
where's he been.
He never looks up,
his eye hooked over the edge
of the can hanging out
of his hand. His boots
are dry-cracked
more than I thought, dusty.
The dog licks my face,
then runs a rabbit.
Words crawl down the cowboy's legs.
"A gelded palomino," he says.
Tells me about this horse
laid down in the middle of the road
near a bridge built of bones
like his, and close
to the creek of his namesake.
Wants me to believe he
was under the rested beast
when it stood up. Says:
"That's where I come from."
We each drown our silence
with another beer and half-way
through the next he looks up
at nothing and says: "Yep."
Tells me that's where he's been,
and that he's headed somewhere
west of the sunset.
Originally
Published in
ZONE 3, 1987, Winter
Back to Top
The Limestone Cowboy Goes Down With The Ship
Five inches of rain and three
hours after the first sun
in two days, Limestone declares
that it is too wet to work
and time to play. Lewis
and Clark, he suggests—
narrates that the creek
has gorged itself to the size
of the Amazon and waits
to be discovered. Pure,
the ride is wicked. Elm
and cottonwood branches,
slash against our faces, lunge
for our paddles. Saddled
on the back of a fast-paced
python, the cowboy's canoe
twists through the tree tops.
And then we are there
—north of fame, our eyes
wide with ourselves
and one large dead log
stretched across the creek.
A limb the size of a cannon
punches me artfully in the middle
of my chest. The ride is terminal.
I grab the hard wood barrel
and hang there like a cat
clutched to its last life.
The canoe is swallowed.
"There ain't no length to time,"
the cowboy told me once.
About ten years later
I see his arm come straight up
and out of the snake's cold, wet
guts and hook around the log.
"Timex," he states. "Ya alright?"
My hat maneuvers around
Weidenhaft's bend, and I notice
Limestone still holds his paddle.
Eyes clean, he is smiling.
And I know he has cheated
for both of us.
Back to Top
The Limestone Cowboy: A Reflection, A Vision
Months now--the cowboy gone.
. . . an offering to the times,
circumstances, big banks, faceless
people. Life. Simply. . .
an explanation he'd gathered
and folded into his back pocket.
I don't know how many beers we drank.
"Hell," he had said. "I'll be out there
riding every shooting star you see."
Now he is nowhere and everywhere---
a mirage gliding across fields, horse
sweat gleaming from the Palomino,
his dog chasing hidden spaces empty.
Distant country roads are swept
with delusions of dust, parachuting
clouds, launched from beneath
his Chevy. And sometimes, just inside
the timberline, an odd moment pauses
before walking further into the creek.
Skunks, coons, and coyotes are safer,
some still tired from Limestone's last chase,
their instincts sharpened from a missed
bullet's honing flight. Catfish
are more plentiful; the river's edge,
more private; older deer, fatter,
rested--Limestone's conscience clean.
He told me once Captain Kirk was right
to seek out stranger faces, different
places, to boldly go where no man
has gone. And when I least expect him
he is there riding across the Universe,
heartbeat to instinct, a psychological
twitch, a man, a myth, one life
to the next
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