Mythos of the Gunslinger: A Poem

Mythos of the Gunslinger

Me and the Gunslinger sat perched

On a rock that touched the sea.

That was when he turned to me

And said, "I'm made of mythos, nothing

But air and imagination. 

And maybe a dream.

Maybe two dreams. But no more.

I'm a Quick shooter, but I'm not that quick."

We listened to the surf, a slivered

Sickle silver moon rising above, reaping stars.

"Hey Gunslinger," I said after a pause that lasted

Half a civilization, "I've got something new for you.

Something you've probably never tried. 

It'sCalled rabbit-tobacco. Just roll it and smoke it."

His attenuated fingers felt along the

Tobacco paper as he rolled it, licked it,

Sticked it. He brought out a pack of

Matches and struck one. Then he ground

It out against the stone and offered me a hit.

I took it, let it roll out slow from the lungs,

From deep in me where the diaphragm is

And the secret skies we harbor in the pits

Of our bellies.