Jesus was beaten into meatloaf
for our sins.
That much is clear.
But at least there was
a reason for it.
While at the rodeo, an imported
hillbilly sanctuary w/the city outside
sliding grimy fingers toward
its legs, an island of national park
awkwardness, we saw a
young Bruce Springsteen bull-riding
local get slinkied-off a
2 ton steer then get subsequently
jitterbugged-upon.
The announcer, some higher primate-form
of radio DJ, said, in the voice
his 1st wife fell in love with–
“He’s alright, ladies & gentlemen.
He’s okay, Tony Lama.
Tony Lama, God bless the states.”
Tony Lama, as I found out later,
after watching the poor booger
being stretchered-out of the arena–
an assisting-Wrangler puppeteering
the wounded man’s arm into a salute,
the same warm-blanket consolations of
parents to kids about dead pets, was
not the person before
the Dalai Lama in the hereditary lunch-line.
He was just some average Texan
who made sturdy boots.