Dodge City: Boot Hill


I stood in the weakly lighted room, almost slack jawed at the enormity of the white man’s surge towards the West. William Cody, investor, showman, bison hunter, best known as Buffalo Bill, along with the injuns and other hunters, purged the mid-western plains of these beasts, and the, God loves irony, few remaining bison in his own Buffalo Bill’s Wild West traveling circus probably were what saved the species. Tier after tier of horned skulls, higher than a house. Where did these bones go?

I sighted the unknown cowboy, a pair of nooses(neese?) dangling over the background scenery of the Teacher’s Hall of Fame, an apothecary with powders and herbage gone to dust, green beer on tap, and a historical church being restored. Dodge City stank. Stinks.

Carcass wind: scent of old blood, minuscule particles of death loitering about the alveoli. Distributing meat. Disturbing sight of cattle afar in field like cars in a stadium parking lot. Young one frolicking in the spring grass stained mud with other young ones. Child’s play, see you in my hamburger. See you in my toilet. Life, I low. Pitiless and unfolding as it should. Strange thought: more sympathy for animal than my fellow man. Something wrong with picture?

Here’s your blogger, a direct casualty of a long-suffering bladder. Too bad I didn’t see that padlock. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have waited so long…


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