Issue 30: Ken Taylor

Wyoming

that day we swapped glances in the bowling alley bar you seemed to be a primetime body in exile. to have dust-licked atmospherics of the valley. or waiting for papers to clear division. i confess i’ve often claimed we spoke, but distance has now made that boast moot. maybe you were tired of the shocks of being spotted that try to mend. the who they meet before seeing what remains. bowing to the riddle of collapsing years like a species of flute falling from a western sky when what you really sought in aftermath — to be counted among the plain. always knowing a broken sump pump means the basement’s filling up. perhaps replaying not picking up the split. your poor position on the 4 to clip the 2 sending it into the 10 across the pin deck. or the number you were handed didn’t fit your feet. but i suspect it was the lack of bright days by the coast. or residual pain from the fiction of your home: performing incest with your brother. jealous stabs from sis. a gay dad and suspect maid in the mix. far more than the shine of scripted medals could defeat. or were you working up the nerve to trade your sitcom cooch for ludes? actress as prop seeking magic under the brief spark of change. real cowgirl, huh? at thirteen i gave my heart to the top left square framing the seed-pack look of your chaste grin. i pledged fidelity only to quit you. white absent green on the range turned darkest lily. marcia, marcia, marcia…

Wyoming

pulse. eclipse. iris. blink. how she arrives. space creature. starlet flaunting zaftig years with a slow strip act to attract would be lovers. it’s not weird in these parts to drive a hundred miles each way to see a film. this one repeats the stretch just covered but it’s scotland. a haggis western. what starts as exodus for game beside snow run-offs is a backdrop to racing a mirror. past rowhouses. through roundabouts. joining several wrong sides of town. extras peek at the camera. count fake change. captions are needed to translate bad teeth. we’re the only ones who try to scare ourselves. thrills safely framed to burn calories, boost mood, hone survival. pumping air to our brains and limbs. triggering pea-sized to take our bodies back to neanderthal systems. facing threats to later flood with feel-good. reducing pain. a joyful comedown effect. cut to a firth. atonal violin. waves crashing. a fished-out lass is used for wardrobe. the starlet dons her raiment. underthings and boots. red sweater-girl sweater. she works po-faced in a plain van. what is cake? where’s the M8? cryptic come-ons to loners who can’t fathom why they have the shine. and follow her inside flops that morph to shores of black ink. she walks their surface like a savior. they sink into stasis. wane. burst. drain through a slit of red light. this aligns with my plumb theory of fear. what promise may come to absolve me for ascent plucks my fight or flight to flames. a recursive ghost at golden hour that can’t be struck. here the horror would be looming sombreros. trans marriage. pipeline pushback. counting on myth to smooth the way. white hats selling weighted blankets. the deep touch pleasure of wash trade in church. the road home dwarfs high beams. my periphery scans enfolding dark for glowing eyes. set on lurch to not t-bone elk or moose trying to shoot the gap. the walking dead. zombies without benefits.

Wyoming

one summer i was a stunt double for a movie star. toe-to-toe on togwotee pass you could tell us apart. my nose broken. mouth split by a horn. but not so in the blur of a chase. unlike the stand-in whose skin and shoesize were a perfect match to set lights, i could take a punch. perform high falls. wagon wrecks. knew my way around appaloosas. the business end of whiskey. and sometimes once they found the star aloof, the out-of-town good looking. former pageant queens. soccer moms. the thelmas and louises. picked up while foley crunched broom for variable feet at the backlot door with their unsigned glossies. buy the first round and keep company. see it through to a fugue state or calenture. a simulacra lover replicating burn when blood sugars and rises in rose madder. when human touch sounds extend acting. no more than strangers disturbing blinds seeking clues of trace. music ups the ante in the scene and then is gone like a stampede each morning. ditching a drugstore cowboy. effaced. back in the saddle again.

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