I am the Lonesome Cowboy. I've devoted my life to swearing, drinking, and kitty-cats. Find me on alt.cowboys.com (P.S. I wear purple underwear — matches my six-shooter.)
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, a face like autumn, a smile like sunset, an occasional tear reminiscent of a cold winter moon, riding endlessly toward what I do not know, still solitary save, every now and then, an hour spent at the laundromat, my last and only social life.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. My boots are tight and my determination is weak. I am sitting still under a hazy sky, lacking even a reason to breathe, except for the involuntary gasping.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. I have thirteen pairs of boots, twelve to get me where I'm going and one to keep kicking myself in the behind so's I keep moving. And a cat. I have a cat too, name of Beeline. Beeline the Feline. Got a real good appetite that one — a good eater there. We sing songs by moonlight, on the prairie, where nobody knows our names, cuz they'd laugh. (Beeline the Feline? WTF anyway?) But not many cats can read me to sleep at night, and I like that quite especially, so we're pardners. In the traditional sense of course. Don't ya see now how it can all work out?
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. I wear a hat but dress in dreams. My words are like silence itself. I live at large, crossing vast continents of thought, ever seeking that which cannot be found. Good thing I have a kazoo to defend against long eternities of boredom.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. If you were me and I were you, could we tell? I fear I would pay you as little heed then as you pay me now, so listen: Can you hear me? Would you ever want to? Would you walk the lonely streets of endless night, lighting candles here and there, only to prove, to yourself, that you still exist? Or not? Who can say? I cannot. I know how only I can sing only then and again, under the dark of the moon, to my lonely self.
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Me? Mulling it over for now.
