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Cowboy Poetry and Western Verse
Jesse James Poems
By S. Thomas Summers
Absolution
I see `im walk out into the rain
as if he’s wantin’ his skin wet,
his clothes heavy on `im. Just stands
there lookin’ at the mud poolin’
round his feet, but he’s more lookin’
through it than at it like he sees
somethin’ we all can’t grab hold of.
I hear `im mumble sometimes ‘
maybe prayin’, askin’ that little Jesus
to drip some holy blood on the peak
of his head let it wash down
over `im like a sweet song.
But that aint never gonna happen
I swear before his clothes are dry,
Jesse will have pointed his gun
at some poor fella's head maybe
even offered that fella a bullet
as easy as my ma offers cookies
to our pastor each time he calls.
And All that Seems Fair to Me
When Jesse takes to shootin’ practice
he finds himself a meadow where
daisies and susans sprout up least
knee high and butterflies, ziggin’
here and there, stitch an afternoon
into a fine little pocket. For a time,
he soaks up sun like a turtle settin’
on a stone keeps his eyes closed,
face turned toward Jesus. Seems
as if the two be as close as brothers,
but Jess already has Frank so,
he cracks them eyes again, takes
just a few trigger yanks to slam
a bullet hole into the wings of somethin’
beautiful. Jess says he never kills ‘em,
just makes ‘em walk like the rest of us.
Jesse James
I don’t think he enjoys killin’
but he ain’t opposed. Just a part
of his livin’- like a piss or somethin’.
He pulls the trigger, generally seems
happiest when the bullet’s cutting’
space `tween his gun and the soon
departed. Ya see, I bet he’s able
to fancy bullets in the air - their spin,
the friction they whittle against
a frosty night. And he watches
`em nestle right into the flesh
he meant `em for. Kinda how a hen
plops her eggs right where
she wants `em. Wonder if he cares
for the dead’s spirits like a chicken
cares for her chicks. Maybe that’s who
he’s talkin’ to when he seems
to be talkin’ to nothin’ but a wind
tangled in his horse’s hair.
Livin'
Ya need to approach Jesse the same way
you’d approach a grizzly. Sure, ya wanna
look get as close as ya can. Ya wanna
feel that power seepin’ off `im like a wild
stink. Hope to taste it. Know how it coils
through him some damn serpent or somethin’.
And ya wanna splash right into his eyes, wonder
if he’s gonna kill ya quick as Lucifer might
or simply grunt go on about his day as if you
were no more matter than a flea on a fox.
That’s the thing wonderin’ what might be lurkin’
in that skull of his. I’m sure I’ll be bleedin’ beneath
his will soon enough, but until then boy, I’ll be livin’.
Train’s comin’
Jesse puts his ear down
on the tracks like a snoop layin’
his ear `gainst a door where a man
and wife are mixed and spattin’.
Once his whiskers feel them vibrations,
he’s up with a yell Train’s comin’.
I cock my rifle, others too. Nerves
spread heat on me like scurve
on a whore, but Jesse he’s dancin’
a jig, hummin’ songs about old Abe’s
bullet poked skull. I think that’s why
he likes shootin’ people from behind
makes him feel like that poor shit
that ushered Lincoln from breath to hell.
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