This last poem is called "The Westerns."
Once again, Randolph Scott is thinking out
loud on TV about the end of freedom, God, mercy, why
barbed-wire fences no longer hold back
old or new grudges, rabid squatters, the wagonloads
of gruelling pilgrim faith in an ever-westward-expanding
destiny, while once again I'm up late remembering
the lacquered sunsets on the Paramount's patched screen,
Saturday mornings.
Me and ten to fifteen other hoodlum
sons of immigrant dreamers aloft in the filthy froth
of the balcony, surrounded by the ear-popping,
fall to your knees and say hallelujah serendipity
of the swooning music.
Westerns was what we wanted, couldn't get enough of.
All those standoffs between post-war rectitude
and existential greed, feeding our burgeoning hunger
to be part of the great American rhapsody.
Everyone mumbling, believing only
in gullibility, Technicolor, eradicating evil, owning
everything.
Is this why every ten minutes the plot questioned
everyone's manhood for no reason whatsoever,
the town drunk drank, the hero sought revenge
from a flashback that had murdered
his entire family in slow motion,
why everyone believed in the rewards of futility,
the solace of violence?
The dignity of misfortune waited endlessly
for the always late, just around the bend, steeped in appetite,
in irresistible grief, beaten to a pulp, utterly insulted point
to arrive, hoping it'd tie everything together finally,
maybe?
Why all these peculiar curlicues are whirling
through my sleepy brain?
And my tiny moment is also quickly passing
because nothing has changed, while the end
is taking me somewhere the beginning
never wanted me to be.
Thank you.