volume one IN THE D U D L E Y C L A R K - Ohio Vine Tours

Smoke starts to pour out from under the counter where rests
the very heavy, very black, very expensive AT3000.
The darkened space beneath the counter is illuminated by
flickering, tangerine flames.
Roy reaffixes his headphones while watching Glaring Guy
leap about, thin arms flailing, his tangled mane whipping, no
doubt shrieking hateful words.
Thankfully, Roy can’t hear them.
Flames curl long, hungry fingers from under the countertop.
Roy turns and walks away.
He has just been eighty-sixed from his favorite music store.
His life is undergoing drastic and unexpected revision.
He clips the Sony tape player back where it belongs—it feels
odd when it’s not there—and presses PLAY.
—Joe.
He got his name from singin’ to
the cows and sheep
Every night they say he sings the herd to sleep
in a bass voice rich and deep
Croonin’ soft and looooow—
He always sings
raggedy music to the cattle
As he swings
back and forward in the saddle
On a horse
that is syncopated, gaited,
And there’s such a funny meter to the roar of his repeater
How they run
when they hear the fellow’s gun
Because the Western folk all know
He’s a high-falutin’, rootin’ tootin’
Son-of-a-gun from Arizona
Ragtime Cowboy Joe!
So engaged in the music does he become that Roy fails to
1 ROY ROGERS IN THE 21ST CENTURY