cowboy roulette
as young as college kids
to middle-aged buckaroos
they draw lots to see who gets
soccer mom and who gets
widow maker.
Its the spin of the pistol cylinder
in a quiet room away from the lights,
matching pokes and brutes for the ride.
In the chute, they have
nerves of steel,
flashes of regret and
dead reckoning as they straddle
beasts bearing as much muscle
as a pickup full of lumber
bristly pelts packed with enough
rage to flip a car,
break a record or
a career, or spine.
It’s the crowd, the prize money, the pride
that makes these calculated
madmen lash themselves
into the bindings of a
marriage of threats
in an eight second honeymoon
thrill ride.
The science of it comes down to
arguing bravery of the single man
with the strength of thirty.
Hooves in front strike with
a ground reaction force
of three times its weight
while the back end punches
four times harder than that.
Don’t forget the horns.
Or the breeding for aggression,
or that flank strap
that is the bee in their bonnet,
the boiled lightning under you.
The art of it is
die or don’t.
Pulling Bodacious or Bushwhacker
means a certain mean certainty.
only three out of eighty
have every stayed on.
There are nights when the cowboys
lose six in a row; not half a minute
of riding all combined.
There is no meaner, wicked look
than being eye-level with the bull
who has got you off its back
down in the dirt on your back.
If you do make it,
you hear the blare of the horn,
the roar of the arena
the pride of the announcer
as you round up the gazes
of star struck lovers,
the pride of poppa, the
thank you God of mamma
and the cash payload of
a year’s worth of doing
more of this.
If you lose,
it means you were thrown,
butted, gored or stomped.
Or worse.
If you win, well,
that means
you’re still on the bull
with whatever luck
you’ve got left.
***
inside a second
sister, sweetheart, or even mom
comes breaking out of the tunnel
towards the first of three
cardboard barrels
racing a clock that slices heartbeats
into bits.
She is riding a champion of her own
centaur as much as any cowpoke
will ever be.
More than smile and poise,
spangle and spark–
angels of agility,
brides of perfection,
spirited mares of their own.
The first rider rounds each
post, without a brush,
kicking up dust, churning the
ground, grinding into the
last twist before the sprint
beneath the tunnel timer.
Fourteen point something seconds.
A high bar,
but just another number
to other champs.
Starting at full gallop
the challenge is three slow downs
three twists, and stick the landing
at full gallop again.
From here, to there,
and there and there, and back
in less than half of a half
of a minute.
Next rider does even better
by two hundredths,
the third wins by one.
The fourth pushes further,
faster, and the last two
edge each of the others out
by razor thin helpings
of Olympian fervor.
Six blue ribbon performances
sorted by less than
the blink of an eye,
all powered by a single brand:
better!
***
Mark Kessinger was born in Huntington WV, attended college at Cleveland State University, lived in Oklahoma City and now resides in Houston TX. He is a two-year recipient of a creative writing scholarship from CSU, a founding member and president of the Houston Council of Writers, and former editor of Voices from Big Thicket. The author of two volumes of poetry, Exploded View and Book of Joe. His poetry has appeared in many publications and four anthologies.
