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.
travel
Adam J. Galanski-De León
COME SIT BY THE FIRESIDE
Rosehill Cemetery gates across the street
barroom, front patio, back patio, dining room
one bar back. Career alcoholics,
a sea of pony and half barrel kegs
lining the floors of the basement
change the sanke, wrench the nozzle, Co2 tanks
hissing beer pouring from brass taps
pint glasses sweating in the heat
bouncing, Latin Kings smashing bar stools
on my back, people stomping on heads
on the sidewalk
shot glasses thrown in my face, pint glasses
coworkers fucking each other in the bathroom
biker lady wielding a Billy club at my head
ex-girlfriend crashes my van out front
CPD extorts me for four hundred dollars
run to the 24-hour Jewel to grab cash from the ATM
homicide detectives next to drug dealers next to
Pakistani cab drivers and service industry regulars
and sex workers, cockroaches crawling out of our food
they are in my clothes, fall of the ceiling into my hair
I ladle one out of the ranch dressing, one crawls out of my salad
Juan fucks up and is attacked by a woman clicking a taser
Tommy scales the wall to break in and cooks himself breakfast
and is knocked out with a punch to the face
then scales the wall and does it again
my Tai boss takes me from my shift in the middle of the night
to bring me to her Lady Boy Show in a closed off
Tai restaurant in an empty neighborhood
people are slipping twenties into thongs while the
Lady boys dance seductively and sing karaoke
7 AM, we are shotgunning Strongbow in the parking lot while
cyclists go by to start their day
boxes fall over int the beer cooler, our glug wine container
is filled with trash, spit, and germs, and we microwave
it and serve it to customers
a terrible man asks me to phone him a cab to Rogers Park
I send him to 95th and Halsted, his wife is in the hospital dying
and he is here hitting on 21-year-old girls. Leaving,
a coyote follows me down the street by the train tracks
the street is covered in mist, unseen birds singing.
I walk a mile home
in silence.
Danielle Hubbard
To you who stole my bicycle
We used to tackle Knox Mountain together, me
and Knoxy, the trails criss-crossed like scattered
spokes, Lake Okanagan flaring
around each hairpin, each blind turn, blinking
between the scrub-trees, bright
as titanium rims. My Knoxy
was a humble Trek Marlin, but fine
fine fine to me. I stabled her in my living
room and never went to bed without patting
her handlebars goodnight. She carried me
sweating and elated to the library, swimming
pool, the scrabble-trails of Rose Valley
before they burned. Knoxy was marigold
red, the color of the Okanagan
on fire. She bounded sure-wheeled
over boulders, bracken, down inclines
steep as stairs. But here’s the thing – it wasn’t
the fires that got her. It was you.
An August Sunday, I glided
downhill to the pool, locked
my Knoxy safe to the bike racks, snug
among the Schwinns and Huffys, all
wagging their fenders, catching
each other up on the gossip.
I remember the smoke that day, thick
as rubber mesh. Across the lake,
Rose Valley candled in the wind.
The crown of Knox Mountain dissolved.
At the end of my swim, only a Knoxy-shaped
gap remained at the racks.
My helmet quivered on the asphalt
like a severed skull, or an eggshell kicked
from the nest. The other bikes cowered
as I gathered the remains, the lock
clean-severed like a vertebrae
when you land a jump dead-wrong.
What can I say to you – you
who stole my Knoxy? I want
to tell you to clean her chain, lick
each link until your tongue
gums black. I want her gears
to crush your knuckles if you ever
– I mean ever –
frame her as a getaway
accomplice on your next
dumb heist. You better
ride her heroically or bring
her home, you fuck.
Why I covet the color magenta
Because fireweed is a voyeur,
flocking to the site of a blaze.
Magellan’s armada was the first to claw
its way around the globe – magnificent!
Magenta is an extra-spectral color,
not derived from visible light.
Extra-special, extra-terrestrial.
Magellanic Clouds turned out to be galaxies,
gyroscoping out of grasp.
Magellan’s crew died of scurvy
and hallucinations – spectres, spooks,
tug-of-war with tortoises.
Ladies of the night wield magenta parasols,
garters, all those trappings of want.
I covet the color magenta
because of arterial maps, oddly faded.
Because of charts and magnetism,
chalk drawings, compasses,
the all-encompassing gravity of space.
Placentas, placebos, and magic.
Magenta is the patron saint of escapism,
the magenta sky orchid a symbol of wealth
and admiration. Magenta neckties
stand out in a crowd. Magenta lipstick
is only for special occasions – a trip
to the planetarium or a certain rendezvous.
I crave Crayola markers, cartoon dragons,
flying saucers. All the conspiracies of childhood.
Magellan himself was speared to death
half-way home. The Jovian gas giant Gliese 504b
shows up as magenta in the radio images.
I want to bounce it like a rubber ball.
If I could choose a color for my breath,
I’d choose magenta.
If the Magellanic Clouds could rain,
we’d all go up in star-fire – marvelous!
The Beatnik Cowboy 