instead of cutting tongue, runaway & chase dreams.
this existence;
this you;
this dream:
            bull riding.

beg for your hand to be tied to the bull. the gate will rattle & breathe. your arm will go numb just after
qualifiers. it'll just hang there. ignore it. tie it to the bull. a numb arm won't stop dreams.

ride. ride with the musculature of beast & bull. stay within the crest of power, gripping, tied. mammalian
figuration. one hand up, & to the lights.

that numb-tied arm will simply snap. entropy is a party. a pile of loose bricks. & you will rag doll.
you will disqualify. you will locker room temper tantrum. you will shatter bedroom mirror. that shit. &
you will go missing for months into the drink. dreams swallowed. the bottles & cans scour your counter
& table. your socked feet will be amongst them.

you toe the midway between heaven & animal man. you transform with the women at night under thick
cloud of bar smell & regrets. you cut tongue now. you drip whatever's left of you into curls of wet mud,
now dried under the hot of day.

& awake maybe;
to morning lights. high-pitched phone decibels. clown, they say. paint-faced, they say. sprinter of the pit.
the barrels & the dirt & the bullshit, ro-shambo. bullfighter. paycheck perhaps.

the frost along the cage at dawn. corral & candy-striped sleeves. you crouch in wait. wait for thunder to
crack & momentous. six seconds plus... & there the rider slips. your feet are a sort of eloquence. the way
you move. the danceform tussle. by & by the great beast. the animals we once were. this is your qualify.

Coop Lee lives & writes in Idaho. He enjoys beer, liberty & sacred geometry.