The critique thread is dead, long live the critique thread. I'll return the favor to as many people as I can, minimum of ten. Here's a prose poem:
The only west left is the north. Tom Waits For Death By A White Man's Fire Built From The Crossties Of An Abandoned Railroad, He Has A Handle Of Old Crow, Half In His Bag And Half In His Gut, And He Has A Gun, Eighteen Rounds For The Bears, One For The Heartache, And One For The Sky. God if I have to die you have to die.
Well, ants keep slaves and orangutans can paint. And you're lying through your yellow teeth saying you never seen a dog hate. The stars, have you seen the naked stars, have you really seen beyond the white picket graveyards? Go ahead and hang yourself from your calendar and say with the humility of a strip mall's skeleton it makes you better. Go ahead. The cowboys are dead and whores wear their skin, but there's some indians left. They've got the Native American Flu and it has a big sloppy with poison glue stamp "Made In Real America" but they'll be okay, they'll be okay, they never stopped fighting and the cowboys are dead and the borders too will die with time.
The only west left is the north, and the gold is really what the poets said in song, black and corrupting and bubbling up from hell, it pollutes more than men's souls. The miners will rush, and they'll come in chains, they always come in chains, slaves selling themselves for a chance to own slaves, they always come in chains. The aspen will tremble and the snow will melt, ants keep slaves and orangutans can paint, the aspen will tremble and the snow will melt, we're the only apes that kill ourselves. The west was never the west and what an idea to build myth from direction, but the north hasn't been paved yet and wilderness lives in the cracks of eastern asphalt and the stucco palaces of the west will crumble into film and song.
The West Was Never The West And Tom Waits Patiently For Death By The Embers Of A Fire He Watches The Stars Slowly Get Dressed And Tongue Kiss Him Goodbye With A Red Sunrise, You Go Your Way And I'll Go Mine, I've Been Following The Highway West And It's Worked For Me So I'll Go Where It Curves With A Quarter Handle Of Old Crow And A Gun With Nineteen Rounds. The only west left is the north.