'til then and when it comes

leather and sweat

bullets and rifle stocks

clashing sound of gold coins

rattling in my saddlebags

salt and sand

dirt and dust mixed with all of it

the smell of heat

a lonely coyote is watchin’ me

from the yellow bluffs above

hungry for mischief

my horse and i are swirling

in bone dry dust below my feet

jackrabbit jerky

pemmican and tobacco

are my staples

til the next kill

whether rabbit or grouse

prairie chicken or prairie dog

i'll eat it all

the watering hole i passed

and bathed in

is long far gone away

my canteen is nearly empty

of its liquid jewels

til the next creek

or subterranean spill

deep beneath the cool

cavernous earth

my loneliness is carrying me

further away than that

into the recesses of my head

far within i reach

probing around til

i find something

and someone to look at

and talk with

til then with no relief in sight

for sure no thought or plan

of ever turning back

my grief is unquenchable

my sweat coats my duds

and hanging loose

permanently creased and blotched

with yesterday's stains

tattered denim frayed and filled

with ever more dirt and dust

under the mid day sun

that’s burning my hide

on the cheeks of my face

leaves no trace at all

of the tears that leaked

but for the powder dried

left of the path from my eyes

under the scraggily stubble of my beard

an itch adds to the feel of sweet escape

i’m off the grid of the towns and city

of the crazy world i left behind

an itch for peace

riding on to the utmost place

an empty space

riding on til i won't any more

til i can't move more

til i stretch out flat on the ground

til i can't get up anymore

cattle can be branded

but i won’t be

i will not be owned

like some commodity

licking the shoes of wall street fools

and others like them

just so i can fill my belly

i won't be owned by corporate entities

with polished hands and shoes and shirts

and manicured hair in place with their schemes

to make more and more and more money

who don’t know anything outside

of a direct connection with money

upon which all things revolve

even their souls

refuting love toward their fellow humans

they can have their world

and their riches which they cannot eat

except it be converted from gold, silver

or bitcoin

except it be converted to clothes,

cars and goods like food and drink

stored away to excess

i turn to the desert now

she’s mine

i love her yellow skin,

her rocks,

her colors and scents,

her quiet niches

her voice

like john the baptist

that rises strong

much stronger than the voice

of the beast that says,

"turn these rocks into bread

and worship me"

i’m just like my ancestors of long ago

who’d rather fight than die a living death

in the web of the beast

whose abode is in bowels of hell

with his mark

whether on the forehead

or the back of the hand

like a prostitute for bread

like a man condemned

seeking sweet redemption

made bitter by compulsion to survive

and who takes the bribe or threat for bait

and consequently loses both his flesh and his soul

to the one who waits to be seated

on the throne

in the holy city

waiting wanting to be worshipped

as if is God,

who will never be

the beast will never ascend back

to heaven from whence he was

but forever cast down

to the the furthest depths

to the lake of fire with his hide

he's always wanting to be as God

but can never ever be

but by his mark desires the same

who will never be

thank our only holy God

because both we who refuse his mark

and God who knows

that this beast spoken of in revelation

the holy book

is nothing but the coming,

15 ". . . abomination of desolation

spoken of by the prophet Daniel, standing in the holy place

16 then let those who are in Judea flee to the mountains.

17 Let the one who is on the housetop not go down to take what is in his house,

18 and let the one who is in the field not turn back to take his cloak."