This is a poem I wrote in 2007 about one of my artistic brother-in-arms and then roommate Dakota Slim (Travis Keats Ross). He is a fantastic musician and is always releasing new albums that you should listen to. Check him out here: http://www.facebook.com/pages/DAKOTA-SLIM/179031043203
Slimmer than a ten-to-one shot
at the tracks on a stray gray
named “Wounded Knee”
when you’ve been drinking since breakfast
and your brokeback bookie assures you
with a comforting twitch
and a revealing itch
that you’re a sure shot.
A real modern-day Doc Holiday
straight outta the movies (the good ones at least):
refined, learned, brilliantly brash,
drunker than a moonshined mountain goat.
“No sir, I’m in my prime.”
The Neil Young to my Bob Dylan,
the Neil Cassidy to his Jack Kerouac:
neo-folk surrealists and post-punk neo-romantics
out to raise a little hell,
or at least yank the rug out from under the angels’ feet.
We shoulda been gunslingers or private eyes or paranormal investigators.
But I guess there are worse things to be.
“You’re not an artist, you filthy thieving liar.”
To the oldest souls who ever died young.