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
What does it mean to be a man?
Photo by Hungrybison
Drinking beer at 9:37 in the morning?
Frozen blood,
shouted commands,
the mist surrounding men’s faces.
Deteriorating, exhausted,
a knife in the heart.
Hardened, vulnerable,
getting our asses whipped,
this is not how it is meant to be.
Pushed into this situation,
words from a saint,
damn, it’s cold.
Being a man is,
brutality.
Being a man,
insignificant, irrelevant,
a shear force of will,
means little.
Don’t let them down,
Don’t let them down.
Filed under American West, Blood, lonliness, love, micro stories, original photography, original writing, poem, poems, thoughts
To grow antlers and disappear
Photo by Hungrybison
into a forest of wild azaleas.
To live like the wild.
A series of skirmishes, battles and truces.
A rift between he and the world,
often solved in the spilling of blood.
Peace in the forest,
the slayer of deer,
he was “wired” differently.
A celebrated bomb thrower,
full of magnetism,
he was born angry.
A scourge among men,
shrouded in cigarette smoke,
he was incapable of avoiding trouble.
He couldn’t find the American Dream,
so he left,
left for the forest.
Filed under American West, Blood, creative writing, lonliness, micro stories, original photography, original writing, poem, poems, writing
Drowning in despair,
photo by Hungrybison
the inevitable mire of horse shit.
Let us retire to your room,
let me sink my iron into the warmth of your flesh.
Our being together,
soothes me, in its outlandishness.
My equilibrium is gone,
my eyesight blurred.
Is there an alter to kneel before?
My anxiety is displaced by whiskey,
and a fondness for the congregation
of the abused.
A cross, a desperate sign of optimism.
I should not be interfered with,
I should be afforded a tolerance.
I’m dying, I need a place,
to draw my last breaths.
I need to get out of this cold,
this numbing Montanan brace.
A futile hope for a reprieve,
before my flesh rots from its frame.
A cross, a desperate sign of optimism.
Was I not true?
Was I not a decent man?
Should I not be assured of my place in Heaven?
fuck.
Sleep eternal awaits for me,
for my unabated surrender.
Filed under American West, creative writing, fiction, lonliness, micro stories, original photography, poem
Rest your head upon the pillow,
the smell of a hundred men fill your nostrils.
Stained and battered.
photo by hungrybison
No young girl dreams of being a whore.
Filed under Short stories and essays
An hour and a half into Utah,
photo by hungrybison
drugged up and running.
The neon sign, the lights of The El Cortez,
the Mexican whore who stole my money,
all burned into my memory.
All still too fucking close.
Along with the memory of
the gut shot man,
the son of a bitch
and his dainty mouthed cocksucking wife,
I left them in the parking lot,
sitting in their car, dead.
Dead, by my hand.
Blood washes blood.
All still too fucking close.
An hour and a half into Utah,
enveloped in darkness,
I feel the numbness taking hold.
I see the stars above,
they remind me of the lights from El Cortez.
Filed under American West, creative writing, lonliness, micro stories, non fiction, Sex
There will be others,
photo by hungrybison
names on napkins and paper flowers,
men in the darkness.
I shall love you through violence.
In the room,
there was another,
from fire came fire.
Regret for the fate of the dove
in a ruffled dirty bed
she sleeps, a bullet in her neck.
Filed under American West, creative writing, lonliness, love, micro stories, original writing, photography, poem, poems, Sex, short stories, thoughts, writing
He understood the down and out,
photo by hungrybison
bumming cigarettes, and ill fitting clothes
that once belonged to another man.
He had no hometown,
spent his youth on the Mexican border.
There is no need for a hometown,
when one lives permanently on the run.
He often could not explain his actions or
his love of a good beat-down.
He survived in a melancholic. alcoholic world.
It was LA, 1974
he was an outsider, a troubadour from the noir world
of this city’s past.
This was California.
Southern California,
beaches,
Disneyland,
suntans, drugs and money.
This was America, but not his “America”.
He was from a more “pre Rock and Roll”,
more “Grapes of Wrath” America.
It’s 2:30 am,
I’m eating eggs in a ancient metallic diner,
with those who washed up on the
shores of the Promised Land, but
missed the bus to prosperity.
They sip on endless cups of coffee as the night
hides the reality of the streets outside the greasy windows.
There is a sense of freedom here.
There seems to be a tradition that
resembles despair, despiration,
but is something quite different.
Here they live free lives,
the drunks,
the loners,
the tramps,
the whores.
Here some keep to the old ways,
here in the night,
here in California.
