There is something within the heart
of western society
a voice of sorts
a frothing, thrashing, screaming voice
which knows only one word,
west,
for some people it's god,
the west is the American holy land
a brand spanking new Canaan
it reeks of hard work
and tastes like the dust
kicked up from an eternity of tires and wheels and spokes
it smells like fresh prairies
and feels like a worn leather belt
and emaciated happy xylophone rib cages
and it looks like  how adventure feels
the west, the endless west,
spurs and sunshine and simple life
always calling
always howling away in the warm humid south eastern nights