A Poem by Joe Sonnenblick
Dying in the town whorehouse in the old west would’ve been a dream,
Just natural causes.
I’d feel for my horse though
Hoping someone would’ve told her that it was quick,
Out of courtesy.
A Poem by Blake Adamson
Lincoln said days were swift as an Indian arrow
I don’t believe that’s true
Days are like three greased Indian bullets
Every two you take to the heart
The third you put into your brain
And whatever the outcome
Everybody else is left
To pick up the itty bitty
Bits and pieces left