Caper's Poets

The Wayback Machine — CL Bledsoe

Saturday morning is a eulogy for Memphis
wrestling, “Dick Williams’ Magic Hour,” the optimism
of emphatic ignorance. The Lone Ranger wears his mask
because he is a ghost, not a coward. The Rifleman can choose
not to use his gun
unless someone really deserves
to be shot. Even then, he just wounds them. The smell
of horses, gunpowder burning
on the tongue. (Bad) men screaming. I would brush
my teeth with a piece of leather, go without bathing
every day, and I would not cry, even when the arrows
pierced my skin. They always grazed anyway.
was my father as much as anyone whose name
I happen to share. Back then, we didn’t know
we were worthless, so we did great things. Back then,
Saturday morning was Sunday comin’ down. All
was forgiven in the enthusiasm of youth. The Noble
Savage may torture, but he never betrays
his nature, Kemo Sabe. The dusty plains of boyhood
stretch ever onward, un-owned, interrupted only by
commercial breaks, sugared crunchy bits
to turn the milk pink.
Saturday morning tells us a man can paint
his face and dance for children and still look his father
in the eye. A man can play pretend well past
boyhood and still walk the aisles of Piggly Wiggly. These men.
Outside, the sun is beginning to rise and the Space Cadet
can’t find his decoder ring. Soon, there will be chores: fish
to feed, fields to walk as the sun scolds him awake. Bullies
who don’t seem to understand that bad guys don’t win.
He will not cry. Even when disappointment comes for his heart
like a gang of outlaws. He will stand tall, face them down.
Evil clouds the aim, after all.


Filed under: CL Bledsoe, Issue 3,

Search By Issue Month

Email right here.

Join 8 other followers