I've often looked to horoscopes
for some semblance of direction
but being duped, by vague vicissitudes
I've seen the arrow's flexion
Of a sheep's bladder drawstring pouch
I consult the cast contents.
Divining truth from chicken bones,
to finally find life's sense.
“You'll be feeling misanthropromorphic.”
The bones seemed to me to read.
And as you could bet, I double checked
So as not to misconceive.
That night I dreamt of deserts.
Cool Creosote bush scented air
punctuated by the darkness
through which I caught Marlboro man's stare.
We meet eyes and with a drag
his face became aglow
'twas featureless save for a hole,
through which Marlboro man smoked.
With a flick of his wrist he threw 'ore me a lasso.
His horse and he let out a huff.
They pulled the rope taut 'round both my feet
and took off, dragging me through the dust.
Like a true buckaroo,
a real renegade cowboy,
the wrangler rode full trot,
backwards, standing, clear to Illinois
Pelting me with loosies,
methodically, on the forehead
His accuracy was flawless,
until I woke, sweat soaked, in bed.
A stray cat, come in through the window, lay upon my chest
''Wherever you go, there you are,'' it said.
The bones foretold this, but gave no insight on coping
with hate, fueled by fearful cravings for a cigarette.
