[Newspoetry] What kind of cowboy are you?

[Benjamin C. Blanchard]

Are  you the kind that totally sucks through your teeth when you answer?
Are you sure you wanna ask that?
<i>I'm</i> sure. Are you? Sure?
G'wan! git! yer deoderant's stinkin' up the place.
Can I get close to you? Do you care where I put my eyes?
<i>I</i> care. I want them everywhere.
They say things'll be different. Maybe y'all will notice less when I give
you
the thrice-over with the ol' ocular oven mits o' distraction.
Could be. Like a sheet but who wants it when I give it?
Over your toes. Neck.
You just expect to be talked to about Bush while <i>I'm<i> probably
burning.
You probably are too.
How 'bout...maybe you're the kind who skinks to the bathroom with a
scraper, covered in who the hell are you to say.
Cause we're all cowboys: the men in drag to be like the women in drag to
be like the original, who was in drag to be like the cows themselves.
Who knows, the cows are probably in drag. Just get a set of cheap devil
horns from the costume freakin' shop.
Voila, baby.
That's bull.
C'mon toots. Everyone's got the right to be lactose intolerant. Even if'n
y'aren't, I have the right to say I'm not a cowboy, I'm a papaya.
A luscious, amber papaya with stips of quonset-hut schrapnel just oozing
out of my labia.
Each one more brilliantly crystalline than the last, cascading into a
pirouette of follicles, sorted by size, texture and relative density.