Took three eyedroppers full of the stuff and pulled into Wall, South Dakota.
I want a fuckin’ buffalo burger,
this is the “Wild West” right?
Where’s the buffalo?
I went all this way through the prairies,
the Badlands,
and there’s no fuckin’ buffalo!
Filed under American West, outlaw poetry, poetry
Star spangled cowboy boots
I slipped into the badlands.
Prairie dust covered,
Dakota colored denim
I want to record my confession
then disappear into the landscape
to lay amongst the willows
and wait for the Devil to come
to find my back broken
my skull crushed.
Filed under History, outlaw poetry, poetry
The night is vacant
photo by hungrybison
No moon glint on hardened tear
No thought to the void
Crazy-assed old man
Walking on the earth leaking
An empty beer can
Remington 12 gauge
The dilapidated barn
A hole blown straight through
Long, deep and jagged
Torn, stained clothes in plastic bags
The starving dog eats
Lost, Colby Kansas
A “Spanish omelet” with toast
consciousness at last
Filed under American West, fiction, History, photography, poetry, Short stories and essays
The sky was once full,
photo by hungrybison
As above, so was below
Emptied by gunfire.
Endless brown black herds
The plains thundered beneath them
Their breath filled the air
Freed from frozen mud
the rivers carried the dead,
Paradise down stream
Swing in silent breeze
The broken gates of Eden
On rusted hinges
Skeletal remains
In grey wood and broken glass
Snakes’ lairs and rats’ nests
Once cacophonous
Where hoof and horn did reign
Stillness in the grass
Filed under American West, History, outlaw poetry, photography, poetry, short stories
Lies sold as ceremony,
photo by hungrybison
“traditions” dreamt up by white men in suits,
sold prepackaged,
and branded,
to “new age injuns”.
Salvation,
like fuck,
is but a word.
Souls piled high,
like the bones and skulls gathered from the prairie.
Piled high,
to be ground into powder.
Filed under American West, fiction, New Age, outlaw poetry, poems, Spirituality
photo by hungrybison
In the cool dampness,
The grownups are huddled together,
in the grip of fear,
with crooked faces,
and vomit in the back of their throats.
They’ve done this before.
Flash lights and batteries,
canned meat,
a bucket for piss.
A dog barks at the reinforced door.
The twisters are coming
Filed under American West, creative writing, History, original writing, photography, poem
He went out from the human beings,
photo by hungrybison
and stuffed the skull with sage.
He then became emblazoned in gold.
One hundred pieces of flesh
were cut from his body,
his limbs ran red with blood.
He danced, and dreamed,
till warriors fell from the sky.
Filed under American West, art, creative writing, History, outlaw poetry, poem, Short stories and essays
A diamondback rattler,
photo by hungrybison
a buzzards’ feast day,
a wasteland of grass.
The body will be where it fell to the earth,
crumpled like old leather,
the place where life ended,
will be marked,
with the stench of the decay.
Hides and tongues for
back east,
that’s gone,
so is the myth,
and the desire.
Stretches of abandoned roads,
on which the snakes sun themselves, are lined with dried up weeds ,
and fences where coyotes are hung by their necks.
Under what was once,
a swatch of blue,
now turned white,
comes the sound of rolling thunder,
the forewarning,
an oncoming storm.
The trailers,
and run down,
bone thin remains of dreamers,
lie in peril.
Filed under American West, Blood, creative writing, fiction, micro stories, original photography, outlaw poetry, poem
