It always starts the same. I push down my hat, clench my teeth, pull the bull rope from my truck bed, nod my head, and strut into the arena. I pay my fee, draw my bull, resin my rope and wait my turn. The announcer mispronounces my name. I’m next to the chute wedging my legs between steel and beef. Push down my hat, clench my teeth, pull the rope tight and nod. The chute is thrown open like an alligator’s mouth, and the bull tears out like an escaped convict. He does his thing, I mine. We become night and day, white and black, good and evil. Which is which I’ve yet to decide; I just clench, spur, lean and wait for a buzzer that will never sound. Then, finally, weightless as helium, I am free. No repo man looking for my truck, no cheating wife or sick kids. Just floating in eternal nirvana, I become the newest galaxy far from the Milky Way. And in this infinite moment I learn that I already am born with all I need to cry and swoon, live and laugh, to love and make love and die. Eons pass, and finally, weightless as lead, I fall flailing into a large pile of horse shit all down the front of my brush popper. I pick up my hat, push it down, clench my teeth, gritty from tiny rocks, pull my bull rope from the dirt and nod to the rodeo clowns as they distract the “Widowmaker.” The buzzer I thought was broken works just fine and is blaring, accusatory like a giant middle finger pointed at me.