Voices on the Wind Comical Voices
Riding stolen horses by Mark Vogel The guy living large with the hat, dressed to the nines in black, with eyes sweeping a broad dry valley to the cows, who seeks his eyes, then humbly brings a store-bought present to the woman tall in leggings with long hair free, like an ancient story busty alive. He is frozen in communal memory, this single cowboy guiding his returned stolen horses at dusty noon all rock and dust, the hooves as staccato rhythm for manly wild eyes stating be here now as permanent fever moves toward the rushing transparent river. Forever the big sky breeze caresses his stoic face schooled in fragile civilization, knowing soon in the script he lives he will push outward swinging saloon doors to face another lawless soul, another wood built village/far trail—prepared, as if venerated teachers in his few years of school saw him stripped of words pounding in a gallop, protected by the silver belt buckle and tall boots scuffed and pointed, the shaped hat shielding eyes from the bright— as a copied tintype—the crooked squint and smile slowly emerging untamed. Deliberate, the hand moves in habit to the gun in a muted painful sepia myth robbed of mom and dad progression. His stripped history has been released into wild context—mixed with spaceship/ instant access—on the cartoonish thin fringes with 50s big hair, as a brave bluff facing forgotten consequences. Nonetheless, he struggles from the bestiary of faceless others, grizzled and contained and handsome, to head on out, away, alone as always.