“lots of nightmares again. guess that’s freedom for you.”

i've been incapacitated,
bedridden,
for three days in
the back of a wagon
with the modern day version
of scurvy
clutching a bottle of vodka
under nascar blankets
from childhood.

(they make news stories
about this disease these days,
in the papers.
on the tv.)


self-medicating.
masturbating.
easing the pain.
the sadness.
the loneliness.

(my wife and daughter died three months in.)

dreaming of westward expansion.
manifest destiny.
gold.
a homestead.
boiling the bones of fish i caught,
with pine needles,
and bacon,
making a stew,
and only seeing my own grave.

two dollars in change
left in my dusty jean pockets,
i smoke my last cigarettes,
and clutch a picture
captured in my mind
close to my heart.

in idaho,
the oxen stopped
because they were exhausted,
and wanted to graze on some grass.
another 4-7 day delay.

cue the six shooters.
cue the cannibalism.
cue the tombstone.
cue the funeral music.

i am breathing dirt
and coughing blood.