The Wild West, I tell myself, never existed. Hearing that, the six Indians get up from their table and leave. The bartender, suddenly trembling, spills some as he continues to pour. I feel like I’m crossing the Sierras alone, but also upstairs riding the pretty saloon girl. She sees a glimmer of something that no one else does, the hangman placing a black sack over my head.
Howie Good
http://apocalypsemambo.blogspot.com/
White Shades of Pale
Christian Landers
Howie Good
http://apocalypsemambo.blogspot.com/
White Shades of Pale
Christian Landers