Bum Wines and the Peyote Coyote by Mike Marino (books to read in your 20s female TXT) 📖

except they are easy game under the cover of night and your jacket to cop a quick feel as they snuggle close under your coat, your sometime pillow, sometime blanket. The steel belt serenades the bumpkin with pink skin next to you as you sit quietly her fully formed breast nesting in your warm hands,eventually getting a handjob before Hannibal looms on the horizon.
Depot food, fit for hounds, not people, rewarmed dogs on a roller spit, warmed up and served up by Mel Tomaine, torpedoing the digestive system..outside in the loading area, bums on bikes, hells hobo’s and divine butch dykes watch the narco angels that free the demons in their heads…outside a cornucopia of crazies, breathing in the diesel screaming out expletives among the excrement s the big engines fire up and head up out of El Pasa, the texmexexpress….soon you arrive where you aimed, constipated and bleary eyed, shuffle your duffel inside to wait in gates, the lines snake back, like chinee dragons for miles, a Thai drag queen sits beside you as you lie on the floor using your backpack for a pillow, number four inline and you ain’t giving up that spot ..low murmurs in the depot, dull denizens in denim and that rodeo hobo from Missoula you made temp friends with, that kid, that kid that you met that reminds you of you, younger dazed and he gets off in Reno and of course missy breasty got off long ago, and thanks to her, so did you…now shes home, safe from you and them, giggling at her memories of her night dance under the leather veil under your jacket in the backseat of a greyhound from hell, with a blue eyed stranger and making 1200 miles of hell into a garden of hedon!

She Comes in Colors

The dead desert is myth. It lives, it breathes, it's alive with color and critters that skitter.
Ochre orgasms drip from the high thigh skies, rainbows arch and frame the southwest, painting the lunar landscape with primary colors..sunsets, orange and rusting in the empty spaces in between abodes of adobe
The bleached white of a Meditteranean mission jesus on a crucifix in the church of San Zen..
the sky, azure, I assure you, is vibrant with whipped cream clouds of kahlua consistency, jet stream trails and turquoise laughter,
charcoal briquets of blazing mesquite fired with the hot rocks of the devils own eyes, create the red and green of christmas chili..
the rocks of red, canyons and arroyos in muddy rio swirls, caked hard as cement when dry,
light chocolate skins adorned with soft sandy shells, brown bare feet kicking up brown bare dirt,
smokey old white haired mountains rising above negro colored fields of lava flows, ancient and old…
tops blown off. grass and trees adding their colors of life to the harsh barren sides and
images of black and white..grey, now suspended in the mind riddled by a machine gun firing armor piercing stars as bullets to rip the flesh, meteors and comets racing through the void..looking to call attention to our deception and perception of reality..fade to black of night...the colors hide until sunrise…colors can be deceiving when hidden in a cloak of darkness.

The Prickly Pear Om Poem
Prickly Pear # ONE
A yen for zen – a thin’ for zin
a yen for zin – a thin’ for zen
Yin & yang – ding and dang – Han Sha & Li Po
Barney & Fred – Yabbadabbado – scoobie-doobie-do
Ring-a-ding-ding
Rin tin gunga din tin
Mandala & mandela, Nelson and Harvey
Mandolay and frito-lay
Spic and span cross the bridge to the rio grande
Southern belle, taco bell Ruby slippers – ruby reds – ruby ridge – ruby, jack Wherever you find them, go for the headshots…
At the circus better yet, down at the donut shops…
Thre is no # TWO..it ends with # ONE

The Oregon Rodeo and Cowboys

Rodeo, ro-day-o, radio, three syllables all, but only one has an 8-second ride astride a bucking Brahma bull that snorts and spits and wants to kill it's rider. Rodeo men rope and ride, while rodeo women look great in tight crotch fitting jeans with firm behinds that know how to sit on a mount and they can dig their spurs in and hold tight with their thighs so that nothing can escape their rawhide grip.
But...this is about rodeo men, who I suppose also have ass fitting jeans and know how to handle a mount too, but they also wear big hats and bigger buckles and tell tall tales of the deadliest bronc's they know and use words like "yup" and "uh-huh" as a minimalist uses paint sparingly to tell a pictorial story. The hat alone speaks 10 gallons of volumes.
Ropin' ridin' bustin' mutton and buckin' bronco hillbillies with barrels and clowns around who abound on the circuit, traveling show men like carnies with dark secret pasts and no present to speak of, let alone presence to speak of or ill of or kindly too. It is a life of horse trailers and horseshit, lariats and liars and tellers of tales taller than the Chisholm trail is long with rides and drives to rail heads and trail heads in Abilene and Kansas City. Bandito's with bandoleers and bandannas and chewin' tobacky is cowboy tacky, but dusters and slickers are for men, while ladies in Yorkshire and femmemen alike wear lipstick and knickers. The cowpoke pokes and brands his calves and drives the herd ahead, unheard of these days of Cadillac cars and fewer pinto paints and Utes and Paiutes The ministers of prairie churches were wild west stern and turned their heads and opened the good book when the cowboys came to the end of the dusty trail in time to imbibe in drunken debauchery and get soiled by a dove or two after a hot bath, shave and cologne spritz in the barbers chair.
The streets were filled with wild cowboys with a gleam in the eye, saddle sores on the bum, and great longhorn hardons ready for great whores and harlots in the hot wooden upstairs of honky tonk saloons playing ragtime and songs of camp town ladies, do da, do da, da do ron ron.The cowboy years had a heyday, hey, back in the day of the late 1800's. The educated Earp, the kid bravado of Billy, the dentist with six-shooter who never went on a holiday, and those southern fried rebel boys, the James Gang and Cole the Younger and the daunting Dalton's. The era came to close soon after the St. Joseph assassination and the industrial age dawned on darkened factory floors and the the cities expanded and exploded and the old west was tossed away like so many spent shells from a Colt Navy revolver.
Bill buffalo'd the crowds and crowned heads with Geronimo and Wild Bill and the Congress of Cowboys re-enacting the lawless days of a pioneering spirit. These led to the circus coming to town to recreate the savannas of deepest, darkest Africa and then came the rodeo, to keep the cowboy alive, in spirit and image. The cowboy is gone, now, dead for all intents and purposes but a few unique individuals are phantoms of a past, a truly American past where the men drank whiskey and beer and wine was for queers. Today, the hobo cowboy drinks cheap wine, but he ain't no bum, by no means, no way, no how, amigo.
I met two rodeo men once on a beach in Oregon bumming their way south down the coast from the northwest to hit the rodeo circuits as crew in California. Hiking the Oregon coast south of Seaside and it's seashells by the seashore shore made one glad to be alive. Wide open beach really, a football field with the end zone somewhere over in the South China Sea, where Mssr. Monsoon raped Asia with torrential floods and typhoons, which is Japanese for hurricanes or something like that. As I walked along making snake marks on the sand behind me by dragging my hiking stick, I noticed two men ahead, far from the waters edge cooking at a fire by a large dead water soaked log of tree stump by the treeline of the forest behind them.They too noticed me. Now, they could have been deranged mental patients out to thrill kill a boy on a beach, or just lust crazed homosexual rapist hell bent on making me pregnant if such a thing were possible.
They eyed me, I spied back, eye to eyes, they with four me with only two at my disposal to assess the situation so it didn't spiral out of controlled orbit. It was apparent we had seen each other so no sense pretending I wasn't nor were they curious so I walked up to them and said "hello" and they "hello'd" back and seeming friendly enough and not dangerous at all started in on conversation as they had a fire built and a kettle on for coffee and some beans in a can and a bag of rice they intended to cook up separately and then mix together to give it some body then wash it all down with a robust tin cup of coffee to further warm them, as the night was coming soon along with the breeze and the fog and the cold so they had to be fortified.
I accepted the invitation they extended to join them, not still sure if they weren't indeed cannibals that had been set adrift and landed here to re-colonize and I was but something for the stew pot to be devoured much later. Turns out the beans and rice and coffee were delicious and conversation animated and quite enjoyable and engaging.
These were two rodeo men. Worked the circuit cleaning stalls, rolling barrels for the rodeo activity that would be needed by the cowboys, and other assorted odd jobs. They hiked the coast for the most part as they had little money left, except for right after the rodeo but then would spend it on whores and booze and cigarettes. They did have a bottle of cheap wine they broke out at this point and pouch tobacco so we could all outdo each other as we rolled our own, lasso demonstrations with rolling papers, and they seemed impressed with my rolling paper prowess, not knowing I had much experience rolling substances not of legal nature which allowed me to keep pace with them. We had smokes and we had booze, but no whores, and I wasn't about to volunteer.
We talked while the full moon was hung on the wall on a hook and hovered in the heavens above, the fire died down from flame to ember, and the wood turned cool coal had that undulating look about them that made them appear to dance the dance of Salome for the assembled guests, although I have never assembled a guest before. Soon I feel asleep as did Luke, one of the cowboys whose names I forgot to mention. Pat, the other one, who also I forgot to mention, stayed awake most of the night staring at the sky, watching the flicker of the fire, and watched the moon washed crests of waves from the ocean make their way to Oregon's shore, a quarterback making a touchdown on the beach. Somehow, I think it was more than that. Luke and Pat had been together for a long time on the road, and lasted all this time so Pat probably was doing is job of guard duty of which the traded roles and places each night so the other one could get some sleep. Somehow I too felt safe, as I don't think any sane person would want to mess