August Ryan

on the missouri river there are mansions,
some with the look of about to be washed away
and no-one would notice, for a while, not until
july rolls around again and they load up
the lexus and they drive the kids up
to the vacation cabin, hours and hours, all
the way up from colorado or texas or
washington or california and they my oh my
and oh dear because the deck has long since floated
downriver, seeking portage at the great falls
or maybe headed right on down to the gulf
of mexico, who knows, it’s been huck-
finning its way for months now and how did
this happen well, the river rose, the river fell
and the mountains watched, aloof, always
folks say they’re big, faraway, cold
and those things are true, but i always
thought they looked like the feet of giants
maybe like old gods, watching, prodding
our grain bigger and our cattle happier
watching out for the prairie and its people
but that’s probably not true, or, they chose
their people wrong, or, we’ve forgotten to
ask their blessings, because we have forgotten
the humbly, we ask for aid and substituted
instead the mine! mine! mine! in all senses
of that filthy word, and the gods probably
would’ve been happier if white folks didn’t
come and shoot all the buffalo, even if
they seem to watch out for some of us
sometimes, and anyway, we’d probably all
do a little better if we watched after each other
instead of building mcmansions, but folks
are slow to learn the things they should
already know, and instead of building
we tear down, and instead of tearing down
we order up more lumber and get to
yes, the redwood stain, i like thating and
you said it could be done under five k, what
do you mean?ing and that’s frankly so
fucking exhausting that i think i might go
play tom sawyer myself, but face-down
in the mighty missouri like john potts instead
of rafting and look man, i think maybe we
should just stop right here about the WEST,
because i’m tired, i’m tired, i’m sick
of mountain men and reading “savages” still
on wikipedia and hearing water wars
not far off, and kids named “wayne,” and “stetson”
and “bryson” and “blaine,” but alright,
one more story first- there was one time,
teener of speed tucked into my sock, leather
jacket on, i sat at the bar in some denver
dive, and a guy about my age, indigenous dude
sat down and started digging into me,
motörhead-listening ass he called me and i
laughed and asked his name and he said
waylon and if that isn’t the funniest fucking
thing i’ve ever heard, and the truest