There are no more cowboys in America. No, that’s not quite right. There are cowboys in America, sure as anything, but their horses have gone to pasture and their badges have shifted from six shooter stars to a shield with PD on the end and the spurs of their boots crackle against pavement but they still wanna nab that varmint one way or another.
Howdy there, folks, we’re glad to meet you in Officer please, I just want to find my friends There’s a bunch of folks who’d like to greet you in Smoke plumes over a skyline for the second time in my life and my eyes water though I am too far to feel the flames. I’m standing in a cafe. Someone nearby makes a comment about Dante’s hell and I think to myself no, shut the fuck up Dante went into hell to claim a woman and I’d rather be chewed in Satan’s icy maw than listen to you wax poetic on “This must be what hell is this is hell, this is hell hell hell” when children can’t find their shoes and may no longer need them.
You can bet we’ll have lots of Western fun
And excitement for you
We’ll ride and rope, do a square dance and shoot a gun
And we'll sing a song or two
Let’s sound the alarm, that’s what we do here, yes? One if by land, two if by sea.
This is a town built on the broken backs of dock workers. Days pass. At 3pm I wait for the 71 bus, cursing myself for bringing a coat it’s beautiful out, early spring, and I could have gotten away with just a hoodie. By midnight there’s blood on Mt Auburn St and I am by my window 4.7 miles away watching the searchlights shift wondering if the rambling noises in the distance are cars, or trucks, or tanks, or mecha.
Come along, folks, now we’re gonna start the fun in I walk through a city that is an urn grey with asphalt and flakes of fingernail I am running, running, running away running rivers running currents running my mouth a city grieving locked in their homes drowning out their sorrows with Neil Diamond lyrics while people tens of thousands of miles away say “Hey, we get shit blown up all the time, calm down.” You can’t tell me what to do, you’re not my real mom.
Children are dead, okay? I get it. While greying men shriek derailment! don’t take our guns! don’t take our guns! and a boy whose hair I want to brush from his face lays bleeding in a boat dock, under a tarp like a pile of AK-47s, embroiled in things I cannot possibly fathom. Won’t somebody think of the goddamn children? Won’t somebody think?
I learned more about how to make a bomb from the leaflet put out by the Department of Homeland Security than I ever did from googling “how to make a bomb out of shit in my garage.” And yet we wonder to ourselves, wonder to our friends my god Kathy, my god, how could this happen?
Time passes and we pause to remember things we haven’t stopped thinking about for days and days and days. I sigh, not out of desperation but resignation that I shouldn’t go on the T right now shouldn’t return to normalcy quite yet there’s a media circus downtown, you see and I just wanted to return my book to the library. Get your pal and promenade down to Boom- Boom- Boomtown!
6/28 Boston Dr. Sketchy’s/Truth Serum Prod.’s featuring The Army of Broken Toys’s Bunny Collaborative.
brief poses sketch4, Amy Macabre - “check out my frills ‘n stars. you aren’t ready for this Macabre/Maccabee…” / adore you, Amy!
blind-contour drawings (at the time) + stained glass watercoloured afterwards.