The West Is Dead

Everything I write is inspired by things in my everyday life. This poem was inspired by a friend of mine, Will, who started a clothing company called The West Is Dead. The cloths and cause are awesome. Check out this website, www.thewestisdead.com

The West Is Dead

O desert grass, how do you thrive?

Why do the clouds yield so much drink in these badlands?

There is no dust, no tumbleweeds, only prairie and skulls.

This is where the buffalo roamed.

Under a cosmic sky, they were the lifeblood,

The heartbeat.

There is no colossal body to tame

this eternal grassland.

They were wild.

Energy embodied.

Life.

It was genocide that fertilized this desolate earth.

Shriveled seeds swallow bison blood.

Not even shadows remain.

Without them

The west is dead.

Stale Love

Writing a sonnet is hard. This is my first attempt and maybe my last. It's valentines day, I'll let you decide whether or not this sonnet is about the kind of love we celebrate on every feb 14. Its up to your own interpretation. Ha.

Stale Love

Thrust upward steel gray cliffs dusted with snow.

Sprawl wide like some primordial jawbone.

Hills roll and buck, and newspaper trees grow.

Beasts cry, a wolf emits its mournful moan.

Stars blink like countless eyes, moon frowns beside.

A lonely wind roams through a wilderness,

Skeletal and baron, mist forming spectral guides,

carefully ushering people, joyful yet oblivious.

A porcelain ribcage rots, flesh hanging like

Old leather, forgotten and thrown away.

 Each violent word is a splintered spike.

Hanging by a stale rope, watching it fray.  

Your companionship is a gray wasteland,

Eerie, cruel, ever depressing, and bland. 

A Simple Savior

For me the spikes were pounded.
Through flesh and muscle
splintering bone.
For me a God falls on his face
to shed his sacred blood.
For me he died stretched on a tree
his arms spread wide
inviting me.