my index finger has a mind of its own,
fingertip absently moving over my belly as i read in bed,
fingernail discovering a flaky bump of skin to scratch to an upright position,
small white scale of skin standing up from what may well prove to be
the first growth of a melanomic death. i pull it free from
off the bump on my belly, scraping it up with my fingernail,
dropping it into my mouth for recycling,
where it has neither flavor nor weight.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
not much of a cowboy i would be
not a week goes by that i don’t fall out of my saddle
drop off my high horse
you don’t care to know about all my bad habits
(they’re the same as everyone’s)
and i don’t care to know about yours
(much the same as mine, i “reckon”)
i roll my own while riding along
tobacco falls out all down the trail
eat too many beans, too much bacon
spit into the wind
pistol’s dirty, can’t shoot it anymore
lariat’s worn out
chaps chafe
damn
just damn, that’s all
then spit into the wind again
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“The effeminate man, as one meets him in this world, is so charming that he captivates you after five minutes’ chat. His smile seems made for you; one cannot believe that his voice does not assume specially tender intonations on their account. When he leaves you it seems as if one had known him for twenty years. One is quite ready to lend him money if he asks for it. He has enchanted you, like a woman. If he commits any breach of manners towards you, you cannot bear any malice, he is so pleasant when you next meet him. If he asks your pardon you long to ask pardon of him. Does he tell lies? You cannot believe it. Does he put you off indefinitely with promises that he does not keep? One lays as much store by his promises as though he had moved heaven and earth to render them a service. When he admires anything he goes into such raptures that he convinces you.” – Guy de Maupassant, “The Effeminates” (trans. McMaster, et al.)