Wilderness Voyageurs in the woods know Asemic Westerns.
Range stop, The Sage Westward, the desert wind writes the Westerns in the darkness, while the Campfire Riders from Stalk Lake were whipped Frozen. That’s what it takes to live in the Land of Blood Wind, just North of the Lonesome Pines.
At Bisection, The Bringers of Cows twisted in the air. It was that time of year. Near the Volkswagen Gultchy , we in sage brush shadows, now like pine trees by a sun-baked waste, let the thieves into the camp.
Wilderness was too near purple, with trails vast in the darkest. Westward, The Last of The Plainsmen, moved through icy fog to Blood and Glory – all the giant trees hid the open sky, made that afternoon resplendence in boon hocks. I knew, in that woods-horse farmhouse by the trees, the outlook was magnificent and sublime beyond words – there are no words, when meaning splashes on rocks. The village was cold chromatic, in a clump, like amethyst button holes . I knew, then came the giants, stones riding whispers.
I sleep on twisted trails by the campfire, while Riders of the Purple Sage sing in saloons . Motown Boogie hunted with the wolves and the calliopes. There were no words left in the street or among the ponies and peonies, just the meowing of pekingese and pancreas enzymes. It was the darkest evening of the year in the Land of Thieves. Time to pack iron and polka, because we will always have Paris.
Notes: Pioneer Western Issue # 1 1937 August – cover image found here.
Cowboys in front of small house with thatch roof on ranch – ca. 1900
The Land of Thieves from page 1075 of “Moving Picture News (1911)”
Asemic text elements created from photos of pages of Tangled Trails 1934 by Roy Norton .
Prose Poem : Meaning tries to regain control through tropes, and codes & conventions of vocabulary, syntax, narrative structure, and genre.