Old Bridle Registry: The Sundance Wives Horse Whisperers

shelf talker
headstalls and
slobber straps

religion choked saliva
the spider consumed
falling into the oil lamp

old mill saddlery
cosmic stables
straw afire

in firefly season toads eat fire
kentucky whiskey poured by the conjuration hand
flour sifter on the door knob at night fuck to drums

cow's milk fell upon
a piece of silver
tits suckable the baby's self-gift

pinch of salt
pod of red pepper on the bridle
chicken spur and ashes

now's where the poem
takes off for the bad-ass ride
we never go to bed with our boots higher than our head

by the good
grace of the rowel
god, our spurs send
off a spark, if you're standing
behind us, you have options,

take the
forked road
to the church
where scripture
will save your ass
from the likes of us -

horse whisperers
weaned from the Pleiadean
livery where hay for the manger
grows a mile high,

or bring
your bible to
our cauldron stirring
to learn a thing or two
about Old Bridle Registry,
ministry for the wise, clairaudible
to the planetary equine DNA, moving
two-tined, three-tined and four-tined
table forks with our minds and mastering
'self-closing' bibles.

Copyright Ms. Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist

take the
narrow-gauge
train and let your
hair down and suspenders
dangle where risk will dare your
ass, you're the fans of The Sundance Wives!