The West is freedom.
It is cowboys and Native American prints and Manifest Destiny.
The West was promised to be wild, and it was.
We’ve stolen freedom.
They say it comes at a cost and that cost is thievery.
We put our feet up in coffee shops and get naked in dance studios across the
nation. We can’t smell marijuana anymore because it is just the city smell, pollution.
Our predecessors promised us it’d be different.
Our dance mommas and poppas made it so that we can roll on the floor, spit
on the street, pretend to have jelly fishes inside our bodies, and not give a fuck.
The West was won. And the West still wins.
The West is no longer Santa Fe streets, Mountain air, and California cool.
The West is everything you can possibly get your nasty, no-manners hands on.
The West is tradition disassembled.
The West is playing telephone with a rehearsed and important historical story.
But, somehow, its purity has been lost in translation and spit out as a multi-
colored array of vomit.
The West is broke.
Broken bones and broken hearts. Broken doors.
It drips away from the rest of the directions.
What about the South, East, and North?
How funny, fun, dumb, we think we are at the center of the earth.
Orbiting in our sexy dust bowl of absurdity.
Like ass cheeks mocking the mountains we are the broken ravine,
disassembling our loss of direction, melting into a fast whirl.
We turn like old wagon wheels.
Like old, broken wood we rot disappearing into flesh.
Ask me about my ass.
We are appropriated. We’ve been repeated and reproduced.
We get in our covered wagons and set out to steal our wins again,
and again, and again, and again.
We are the WEST.