Look to the west

Look to the west child!

And think about your home.

The mother was murdered there.

Lying among skeletal pines, hallowed out river beds, and blankets of smoke, that cradle scorched grass land.

God sold the west, to profiteers and Cowboys, Vagabonds and travelers, abandoning those who were puritans of nature. The worshippers of the matron mother saint, the source of life abound.

The ghosts of the fire warriors still haunt the land. Charring the trees in political protest, and calling upon boulders to be the drums of war! In Summer, they scorch the blood from the soil, and try to push the devil from their home.

Where the back country mountains preserve their loneliness under blankets of snow, longing to be touched just once after the melt, and meet the warm blooded, wayward beings, whose frigidity is aimed at the frost bitten soldiers, who brought their weapons of the east, to build timber towns and gorge themselves in the feasts of hunted creatures and silenenced beasts.

Positioned in the west, away from the rising sun, it is still the land where sunshine breaks the chains of southern tradition, and brings northerly dogmatists, to become hypocrites of progressivism. To grow grapes that centuries later became grizzly wine, staining the white shirts on god fearing bodies, akin to the blood bursting from the body of the mother and her seeds.

The golden state that was built when the gold nuggets were shaken awake, by the blasts of greed, and the pans of miner men, and were sold for the green. Now the only gold left, is the sunlight blessed, blonde hair of the states natives. Sun bleached hippies of the new western frontier, that positioned buildings of steel alongside what’s left of the mother’s green gift.

Now, they grow green in the west, cutting the fragile weeds, castrating them to make room for the seeds of industry. There are farm lands nestled on stolen land, that sprout up green, the kind of green that makes the sun bleached warriors of the west, breathe in deep, and submit to the secret market of higher consciousness...

But these farms were unlike the farms further south of the capital, that became dried by the sun, like the skins of the silenced beasts of the frontier. So they filled the farms down there with newly silenced beasts, that still mourned the mother or who undertook long northerly journeys to reach the gold studded west, only to find that the gold had been bleached white, and the green grasslands had become timber towns. So they picked the grizzly grapes, breathing in dry earth still tainted by the blood of the mother, by the chemicals of the mine. Yet picking the fruits of the west, they still had the gleam of Eden in their eyes.

Now boy don’t you run me dry, the father said to the son, and the son said to the child, and the child would say to his child, as seeds continued to propagate the land. But the rivers are run dry, the child is thirsty from drinking bones, choking on his words, as he pleads, but daddy their pushing me north, just like the natives long ago. Dusty old houses can’t be payed for by dusty fields, and so the mother is itching in her dusty grave, as her children suffer from the chains that freedom had built them.

Beneath the dusty veil of depression towns, and coastal encampments, and high rises, there is magic abound. At the heart of this land, born through lawlessness, the heart of the mother, lady earth, reaches up to bring all her children home. Reaching up through sunflower farms just past the valley. Riding atop the crest of white waves that crash into the cliffs, nestled between ocean, highway, and towering redwoods. Blossoming snow flowers, yawning, as they rise through the foothill snow on the first day of spring.

Here on the now, not so new western frontier, come touch the source of life, and wonder, mixing with the pain of the lands brutal origins. But never a place will exist that makes me understand the freedom that mother once experienced and the stability built by her kin.

Now look to the west child, the sunset burns your eyes.

The mountains are pushing up under your heels.

The waves are pumping the blood in your heart.

Return now to continue building up your house, in the sun touched, stolen land, where mother sings the juxtaposed lullaby’s of grande out and destruction.

Now look to the west child and don’t be blind to the mountains that stand among mines and aged railroad tracks that has carved the road home, as you are pulled to manifest.

Destiny!

The west calls for you to return to your wayward home.