May 18, 2013

Red Shuttleworth

TIP FOGARTY (1963)

“For graduation I gave her a black terrycloth
bathrobe, only such garment in Milford, Utah.
My dad, hunched shoulders from window repair,
electrical contracting, and sneaking off
to Nevada to guzzle whiskey off big titties,
says, ‘Every man knows what he needs to hack free of,’
which codes out to, ‘Don’t marry Angela May.’
But I love how she poses in the midnight center
of her daddy’s pasture, robe untied, quarter smile,
smackin’ hot in the thick white headlight beams
of my Dodge pick-up, like a special picnic treat,
not one flaw from God, no silly teasing,
like I’m some Swedish film director
at the high noon of his heart’s requirements.”

from Rattle #21, Summer 2004

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October 13, 2011

Red Shuttleworth

POSTCARD TO JERRY L. CRAWFORD

Dear Jerry, We’re at the radiant-blood precipice,
tumbleweeds snagged by barb wire. Yesterday,
as daybreak floated across rock and sagebrush,
someone left a blood-dripping, gut-and-lung shot
coyote in a shopping cart in the Moses Lake
Wal-Mart parking lot. The cart boy, Brent,
was dispatched to have a look.
It didn’t fucking starve to death, he told his boss
before phoning me. This is not, Jerry,
theatre for castratos of the New Yorker variety.
As I rolled up in my cherry-red Mustang,
chewing tobacco, listening to the Cowboy Junkies,
Brent was laying a couple of large plastic bags
over the bullet-riddled carcass in the cart.
It caught me in its gaze, Brent whined,
like I was the pimplehead who shot it.
I told him to shut up. A crowd was gathering.
Then the wind lifted the bags and they spun
off the cart and a clownish girl, with orange hair
and a black dog collar, began dancing.
A guy in the crowd snapped, For Christ’s sake,
Nina, we came here for groceries and beer!

So Brent pushed the dead coyote cart
around to the back of the store, dumped the coyote
at the edge of the lake where we buried it
with brand new, soon-to-be-on-sale shovels.
It’s a bit like baseball, Jerry:
where the head goes, the body follows.
We’re almost over the wall, Red

from Rattle #26, Winter 2006

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August 11, 2009

Red Shuttleworth

A PLASTIC DASHBOARD JESUS? YOU KIDDIN’?

I’d rather worm dogs for a living, she said,
drunk as ten Saturday night cowgirls,
but she clobbered into his pick-up truck
outside of Minot, said, Okay, gimme shelter.

The night was cold as half-frozen milk.
An hour later she told the rancher,
I’m so bored I could piss on your car seat,
then fell into the amusements of dream-sleep.
And he steered onto a backlands dirt road,
reckoned she was likely not the dimpled bride
at the end of the rainbow. She woke at dawn
on a mouse-gnawed couch, under a green counterpane.
Outside the howling wind came from the northwest
and a cow was on the front porch
trying to look inside through plastic sheeting,
snow drifting all around. The unopened mail
said the man could buy gunk for foot bacteria,
renew rodeo and cattlemen’s magazines,
or get his hearing tested for free.

The spring prairie was enormous,
seemed to sing, Warning: Red Roses.
The rancher had nothing to offer
but a dusty sky, a new summer,
a pair of dozen-year-old cow horses,
basic satellite TV, and white-faced cattle.

from Rattle #30, Winter 2008
Tribute to Cowboy & Western Poetry

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