“We Don’t Intend To Be Here When This Shithouse Goes Up”
Something for Inauguration Day…
“We Don’t Intend To Be Here When This Shithouse Goes Up.”
(For W.S. Burroughs and L.D. Posey)
Under mottled gray clouds, the wind swings slack telephone wires twanging with each gust. Puffs of dust off the rooftops. A screen door slams on an empty house near the end of the street. A red dog lopes on a diagonal path into the wind, it’s head low. The dog crosses the street and hops to the plankwood sidewalk and sits near the door of Bate’s Merchantile, its eyes blinking.
Twenty minutes past noon Late November 1901 Shawnee, Indian Territory.
“This whole territory’s gonna pull in the marks, Leonard. By the shitload.”
Oeschlager strikes a match, and delivers his observation holding the flame between the two men’s cigars. Leonard looks into the clear neutral eyes of Oeschlager and dips his chin.
“Now your simple-assed businessman doesn’t see what this means beyond a tidy…
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