WEBVTT

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I'd like to read
some newer poems now.

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I'm working on another
chapbook of poems which is

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titled the "Bull Engine Sulks."

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To be pronounced correctly,
it should be the bull engine

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"sul-uks."

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It's a Western
colloquial expression.

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You go into a bar and you
go up to Ed and say, hi, Ed,

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and Ed doesn't say anything.

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You go over and ask Jim,
what's the matter with Ed?

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No, he's got the
bull engine sulks.

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Seems to me that that's
a characteristic mood

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that we find in the West and
these poems are about the West.

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I'll select a few of them.

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First one is called
"Knives, Bonner Montana."

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Inside the mill town
laundromat barn cafe,

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a man stands like a
knife, holding the day's

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first smoldering beer.

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The same edge in his head
today and it loves his aging,

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each week of his life,
who did this to me?

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Was five dull metal days of
being locked in his own brain.

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Make somebody pay, two
nights drunk and do it again.

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Outside on the ground,
the first priest

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here saw human skulls,
hundreds, called it

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the Hellgate place of ambush.

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Down the road, another
town, another bar,

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another surly County
where the West waits

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woman who knows her man's
friends will get drunk,

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go home like the old twist
jawed trout in the river,

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hooked and escaped.

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Sullen man waiting
for a stranger,

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patient as the long flaked
volcanic glass splinters

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stuck in the bone ridden
ground, these knives.

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