The History Of The Wild, Wild West

is the history of men penetrating men
with bullets, at least—and now I know why.
For instance, I know why Pat Garrett shot Billy.

Imagine that intolerably young, bonny boy—
all gun-blue glitter, semen and smoke—
let loose, unbroken, on the weathered terrain of the West.

Who’d allow such a gap-toothed goofball to ravage
the cattle and available women,
while an upstanding, pot-bellied lawman gets buried,

chewing the dust of the Kid’s frantic industry? Not me,
I realize, watching the beautiful boys in their ease
navigate malls or skate-parks, their callow hearts

lusting after small-time crimes, with no regard for me.
All middle-aged men have a boy in their sights.
Their own boy, the one they can never have back.

Future Perfect

Listen:
You can hear Christopher Marlowe rub his eyes.
You can hear Billie Holiday buy a yellow dress.
You can hear the Rosenbergs rustle their sheets.
You can hear Al Capone put a nickel in the Automat.
You can hear the Ripper wipe his boots.
You can hear Eisenhower suck molasses from a spoon.
You can hear David Garrick drive the audience from the stage.
You can hear Ginsberg boil water for tea.
You can hear Oppenheimer scratch something on a pad, cross it out,

then write it again.
You can hear Nijinsky weep onto his rehearsal clothes.
You can hear Sinatra set traps for gophers.
You can hear Warhol remove a band-aid.
You can hear Emma Goldman wipe her glasses.
You can hear Munch rummage through a drawer and Strauss pick out stockings.
You can hear Whitman toss in the night and wake too early, or Caryl Chessman
unable to sleep altogether.
You can hear Titian crack his knuckles and Ayn Rand twist her pinky in her ear.
You can hear Peter Lorre put his shoulder against the door,
put chairs against the door,
put a dresser against the door,
and then move around the room with considerable difficulty.

You can hear something prehistoric
laugh at the future.

The future:
that grim cuckold,
that drunken uncle,
that incalculable eye.