Hello folks. Yes, many people tell me I’m a good guy in spite of what they all say. Not sure I agree, but what do I know? Order my book or extra copies of our latest “Best of the Cowboy,” if you’d like, at our BeatnikCowboy.com address, but I’ll be damned if I’m gonna go on Amazon hawking the thing(s). I don’t agree with that Zuckerberg fella. No, not since he came to the Black Hills and didn’t look me up. I failed to read about us together in the society pages of the local newspaper. I guess the neutrino smasher close to the river Tartarous was more important. You get so far down you have to adopt a new soul! And, is that kosher? I’d like to see Bruce Lee kick ass on some Rabbis. Not really, I’d rather see Chuck Norris whaling on some Dicks. Jihad Moby’s spinning dance tunes angrily crying out, “What’s the frequency, Kenneth?!!” Psychological Pearl Harbor, indeed.

Whoa! Like whoa-sville, daddio. Like whoa-sville. Town in Iowa. They want you to stop for snacks, and a pawicure for the pooch. Before heading out for the dog meat and torture festival in China. ‘Course you’ll need one of those sea-faring cars. Just not sure how they’ll hold up in gale force winds with forty foot waves, and seagulls pecking at your eyeballs. Oh and by the way, did you know that a mule is way better as a watchdog? Got it from an old prospector dodging Apache, down Tombstone way….

But let’s talk poetry. Rot gut, hardcore poetry. Real pajama boy shit. Melting snowflakes. Muslim cops, armed, and gunning down whites. Gettin’ their quotas of kafirs. If things get too bad I’ll have to put a fatwa out on myself, again. And cheat those that come to collect their due! Please, no more submissions of drawings of the Prophet! Damn your majesties Satanic request!!! You do know where the original recipe for the gummi bahren came from don’t you? Harbro will never share their secret.

The poems are strong but the minds are weak. Bad week for LSD. Hanging chads, and Al Gore. Fish swimming on Main Street. Ackee and salt-fish. Couldn’t be any clearer, could it Gertrude? Hemingway I fear had a few too many Papa Dobles. Fresh squeezed grapefruit and rum, in Santiago. Couldn’t write anymore. Was trying wordplay with crayons. Tried to walk into the spinning prop at a stopover at the airport here in Rapid City. Martin Landau, of all people, stopped him. This was before they named the car after him. Back when Marty roomed with pure pork sausage. Big John, Big Bad Juan.

Thumper and Bambi, and Connery’s pasted on hair. As in every year I say “Sexiest Man Alive” my ass.

Couldn’t sexy his way out of a paper bag!

But not these poems, this month. If they’re not immediate wakers, these nuggets of sound and wisdom are sleepers. Way homers. Tough nuts to crack on deeply symbolic and philosophical level(s). Phylo dough wrapped around an all meat frank. Crying out croi-sssanndd-wich! Philosopher Kings wearing Burger King hats!! And I don’t mean sheep gut condoms!! So swallow them whole, tied or not! Allow them to open in your gut and explode! Poetry goodness. Keep ’em coming please. We love you in a distinctly non-sexual way. Except for the women.

Relentlessly,

Randall 7/21/2017 The Beatnik Cowboy