Welcome to my Western

Welcome to my western habit-

at, mouth of the river parched as shown

in the photograph of lariat, a snap 

soliloquy. The birds ritually love 

the rain, the topic of talk by Midwestern 

exports strolling the cement of the tepid 

west, dry as a pitch pipe, disobedient 

to reputedly wild wilderness, half in-

visible if haptic on skin of 

the gamelan, posing in the museum

for the faint of heartstrings pressuring the heart 

to occlude infernal entryway to 

this proxy planetary freshman-hood.