Let the Rough Side Drag -- with Ms. LaCarte

The sound of leather stretching  
adjusting to my grip,  
my hand,  
my dig of heel  
But the power behind it...  
It is beyond me  
above me and greater  
even than what is underneath me  
 
I am warming the rosin,  
sticking me to my guns  
apprehending a nod  
signaling the chute release  
the scent of roughstock rising from my own skin  
its potency slack with submission  
respect,  
repentance,  
in an absurd chapel  
That caters to the wild  
and unruly,  
the drunken and unseemly  
Who come forth to witness  
the center of the bull,  
I feel them mirror the bucking  
Sense them join the stomps of storytelling  
escaping flank strapped hooves  
reverberating from the souls of cowboy boots.  
 
None compare to the snort and thrust of  
the animal that does not carry me,  
but suspends me above the dirt  
and my innate fear.  
 
A sanctified agreement with  
a staccato of seconds  
settles the questioning of outcomes  
with a suicide wrap.  
We commit to the end of our draw  
wearing a girdle of barrel men  
sworn to protect us both.  
 
On the back of this behemoth  
there is no hierarchy of need  
my right hand raised high  
counter to intuition  
waiving intellect  
fueling my need to grasp for  
untenable gravity  
Or an ability to breathe  
 
God willing,  
I ride  
eight seconds of absolution  
where my sins are shattered  
beneath 2,000 pounds of    
"Get the fuck offa me!"  
 
There is Glory here  
to be harnessed,  
Witnessed by blue eyes  
searching blue jeans for  
Resolution.  
 
And I do resolve,  
To ride this monster or die trying.  
And wear a belt buckle that shines  
Brighter than altar candles.  
The dimensions of it  
So expansive,  
Y'all will write poetry  
About it.