Why I Long for the Days of the Old West
I journeyed out west to find the sun, the warmth, and the adventure.
What I found was burning heat and so much figurative cold.
Las Vegas would have been better off left in pioneer days
as a travelers’ stop along the westward trail.
I long for the days of the old west. They seem to have been filled
with real and honest living. Not that all daily incidences were ruled by good,
but at least they were taken for what they were. You knew where you stood,
which side was which, and how to deal with either.
And nothing was conjured, artificial, or pretense. No iphones,
no cosplay, no ai. And if you didn’t possess common sense,
your road would be extra hard. These generations had to live
by their wits. Danger was plentiful and you had to know
how to deal with it. Trust was a serious deal and betraying it
was dealt with appropriately. Relationships were a gamble,
but if you were lucky, they could make a fruitful partnership.
It was a time and place when folks were obliged
to be connected to the land – their survival depended upon it.
Homes were built out of the wilderness, food came
from what you grew, even transportation was of the earth.
They made use of it, but they mostly respected it.
Jump a century or more forward and that western frontier
is all but a memory - Las Vegas, in particular. Even in
the seventies and eighties when I first started visiting,
development wasn’t that bad, still reminiscent of a detached outpost
in the middle of the desert. 21st century Vegas is a nightmare.
Over three million people and all this cursed development.
They thought they would quit building when they got
to the mountains – they didn’t. They said they would stop
when the resources ran out, but they didn’t. In olden days,
there were natural springs providing the little water
the small community needed. Now all things are dependent
on a reservoir called Lake Mead, which has drawn down
so far as to impose heavy water usage restrictions. Native
vegetation and wildlife species have been pushed out. Exotic
and pest species have moved in. Man-made lakes have
brought in mosquitoes. Aquatic vessels from across the country
have brought in quagga mussels. The homeless are on the streets
more than they ever have been. Meanwhile, city, county, state,
and federal lawmakers are bought off by special interests.
I spent years fighting for appreciation of the wild areas,
preserving carrying capacity, and educating the public.
But you can only hit your head against the wall so
many times. Retired and somewhat damaged
from the fight, I retreat into my own created desert
preserve on a small plot of land, where native
plants flourish and a few native bird, lizard,
and mammal species can find escape.
That’s what I’m looking for, too.
Philip Ash
ROAD TO ROE
Train clattered past below.
I smoked an Oliva. Never
rode boxcars, but hitched
around SoCal as a teen.
Then thumbed nonstop
500-mile Alaskan summer
ride. Anchorage to Homer.
Camped at a farm, people
played midnight volleyball
(bright 23½ hours per day).
Stallion in heat galloped
alongside fenced mares,
almost ran over my tent.
Flew on this toothpaste tube
plane west to Dillingham.
Mexicans got me working
that unsafe salmon chopper.
(“You’re the best at it!”)
Hundreds of cut off sockeye
heads stared up from concrete.
“Black Hole Sun” blared
out old boombox, followed
by mariachi tunes. When
schools swam thickest,
shifts went beyond 24 hours.
Except for one guy who
just snored inside his bag.
Burned fishy clothes
upon exit. Bearded men
guzzled liquor bottles.
Native Americans drove
only paved road. Lone bar
opened, blew paycheck.
Maria Barnes
Wrong Reasons
The way you turn around, in the dark,
is all wrong, and you have no idea
where you’re tonight or why. . .
Two streaks of light point to the place
where only blackness can survive,
and you go there, but you still don’t know.
You don’t know why
there is something heavy in your hand,
a hammer coated in warm blood,
in someone’s blood. You ask the blackness,
and the streaks of light become two fading eyes.
Alan Catlin
Remains Unsuitable for Viewing
after Charles Simic
The paperwork said.
The coffin duly marked as such, as well.
We wonder who made the decision for us
And why.
It wasn’t as if he’d been struck blind
and sent to clear a minefield.
If we could see what was left inside
we might conclude otherwise.
Clearing the minefields.
One man is never enough.
Down time at
The mall pizza place
old guys shot
the shit with the owner,
drank bad, burned coffee
commenting about,
“No tits. Nice ass
counter worker,”
who was the owner’s
girlfriend.
Everyone laughs.
Except for her.
She doesn’t need
the aggravation,
they don’t live
together, but she
needs the job.
Says nothing.
The more raucous
the comments,
the redder her face
gets, wipes the past
table and keeps on
going out into
the mall.
“She’ll be back.”
the owner says.
I always thought
She was always pleasant.
Always hard working.
Sweet even.
Nice ass, no tits,
shouldn’t define
who she is but
it does.
Sterling Warner
Pastoral Muse
Cornsilk unstrung like angel hair
flows in temperate wind gusts
rests on an air pocket and captures
lost moments warmed by eternal flames
of awkward commitment; somewhere
in between a freshwater crocodile’s armor
and a swallowtail butterfly’s wind dust
a spark of natural magic resides resolute
untouched by scientific progress
human encroachment, or climate change
confrontations—just golden tresses floating
breeze-back on inspiration’s flurries.
Hypothalamus Amoure
Aligning our circadian rhythms
breading shades and emerging light
we crow at one another, friends
and family discover daily purpose
in quiet, solace in shade, joy
in the moment instinct melds
with detailed knowledge
providing form to ineffable oaths
making meaning in a world consumed
with electronic gadgets shrewd
investments, and optimum returns;
as we perch on Olympic Mountain
crags awaiting Dawn’s rays to bathe
us with warmth and signal our overtaxed
brains to quit producing melatonin,
internal clocks stimulate tiny cell clusters
processing, influencing maximum mental
and clockwork physical reactions to each other.
Richard LeDue
“A Sensible Choice at 6:29 PM”
All I wanted was to let my madness
dance on the blank page,
but I had unclog my toilet,
deshell the eggs I boiled for my lunch
for the next three days,
brew some decaf coffee (a sensible
choice at 6:29 PM), and smile
at remembering my friend complaining
about the drunks at the mall
on a Tuesday morning,
wondering what was wrong with them
and thinking I must have been joking
when I told him they just understood
life better than most.
Daniel S. Irwin
Flowers
Off to visit a sick friend
In the hospital, Daniel
Would have picked up
Some nice flowers to
Bring but there were
Too many witnesses at
The cemetery.
P.B. Bremer
Junkie John
"I sing the song because I love the man"
--- Neil Young
In July, he wears wool sweaters
to hide the potholes
of his arms' bad blood
staining the starched white
linen of his dress shirt.
He shoots meth
between bells,
locked in the faculty bathroom.
By three he's picking his cheeks,
itching to hide at home
the night that sleeps
eyes wide until morning.
Broke
he combs the carpet
for a bump,
flush with twenties
he watches CNN for a week
without eating.
The wife, the cat, the car
move in the middle of the night
to Montana
before the salad mash
of his mind
collides with the cops
and they kill him
with a .12 gauge
for thinking he's back in Iraq
but his family
won't state his name
in the paper ---
Gone, gone, the damage done.
But I was more than
just a setting sun,
a little part of me in everyone.
Stephen Jarrell Williams
The Lonely Ones
The lonely ones
keeping the city sane.
Their auras soothe
all the hate and pain.
We just have to concentrate
and feel with our hearts...
Joining the lonely ones,
making a huge crowd.
Keeping the city sane.
Nicholas Viglietti
Thin On the Ground
Don’t speak,
They don’t want to hear.
Never share,
They’ll never care.
Don’t waste your breath –
You ain’t got much to spare.
Screw the reasons,
They ain’t got guts.
Screw their worries,
The jealous
Will just call brave,
Nuts.
Nobody will admit it,
But we’re all headed down,
On the same
Nowhere lanes.
Don’t quit-on yourself, though.
Don’t do like everybody else,
Be brave,
Go for broke.
It’s the only way
A long shot
Can cope.
Thin on the ground,
Nobody wins,
There’s no fangs of meat to fear,
Stay crazy between the ears,
Brazen belly of hope.
The Beatnik Cowboy 