The Wayback Machine

The Wayback Machine — CL Bledsoe


Saturday morning is a eulogy for Memphis
wrestling, “Dick Williams’ Magic Hour,”
the optimism of emphatic ignorance.
The Lone Ranger wears his mask
because he is a ghost, not a coward.
The Rifleman can choose
not to use his gun
unless someone really deserves
to be shot. Even then, he just wounds them.
The smell of horses, gunpowder burning
on the tongue. (Bad) men screaming.
I would brush my teeth with a piece of leather,
go without bathing every day,
and I would not cry, even when the arrows
pierced my skin. They always grazed anyway.
Bullwinkle
was my father as much as anyone whose name
I happen to share. Back then, we didn’t know
we were worthless, so we did great things.
Back then,
Saturday morning was Sunday comin’ down.
All was forgiven in the enthusiasm of youth.
The Noble Savage may torture, but he never
betrays his nature, Kemo Sabe.
The dusty plains of boyhood
stretch ever onward, un-owned,
interrupted only by commercial breaks,
sugared crunchy bits
to turn the milk pink.
Saturday morning tells us a man can paint
his face and dance for children
and still look his father in the eye.
A man can play pretend well past boyhood
and still walk the aisles of Piggly Wiggly.
These men.
Outside, the sun is beginning to rise
and the Space Cadet
can’t find his decoder ring. Soon,
there will be chores: fish to feed,
fields to walk as the sun scolds him awake.
Bullies who don’t seem to understand
that bad guys don’t win.
He will not cry. Even when disappointment
comes for his heart like a gang of outlaws.
He will stand tall, face them down.
Evil clouds the aim, after all.


C.L. Bledsoe

Posted over on Caper Poetry