Starspangled cowboy
　　sauntering out of the almost-
　　silly West, on your face
　　a porcelain grin,
　　tugging a papier-mache cactus
　　on wheels behind you with a string,
　　
　　you are innocent as a bathtub
　　full of bullets.
　　
　　Your righteous eyes, your laconic
　　trigger-fingers
　　people the streets with villains:
　　as you move, the air in front of you
　　blossoms with targets
　　
　　and you leave behind you a heroic
　　trail of desolation:
　　beer bottles
　　slaughtered by the side
　　of the road, bird-
　　skulls bleaching in the sunset.
　　
　　I ought to be watching
　　from behind a cliff or a cardboard storefront
　　when the shooting starts, hands clasped
　　in admiration,
　　
　　but I am elsewhere.
　　Then what about me
　　
　　what about the I
　　confronting you on that border
　　you are always trying to cross?
　　
　　I am the horizon
　　you ride towards, the thing you can never lasso
　　
　　I am also what surrounds you:
　　my brain
　　scattered with your
　　tincans, bones, empty shells,
　　the litter of your invasions.
　　
　　I am the space you desecrate
　　as you pass through.