Sage Sweetwater's love for pulp fiction dime store novels has re-invented the way her audience thinks. Sage Sweetwater re-kindles the spirit of the Old West in her lesbian poetry, blending elements into contemporary settings, Her audience passes through a peeled-pine-log entrance to her pulp fiction gallery, a collection of lesbian erotica, giving lesbian sexuality the natural feel of nature and wood, whiskey-bent, conjuring up brothels, tipis, stagecoaches, and spiritual elements of Earth and Sky, invigorating scenes which explore women's history. Sage Sweetwater quills a new generation of pilgrim lesbians! She is not worried about her audience finding flaws - her commitment to literary excellence and accuracy defended - she has a cactus lamp sitting on her desk laced to a lampshade with hand-colored Old West photographs printed on plastic-coated paper and laced to the lampshade. The quality of her work resides on Authors Den where it is showcased, which has withstood screening, critique, rejection, scandal, and controversy. Success is the best motivation. You have to write many poems and what you get in return are the people - a faithful readership who knows Sage Sweetwater lays out a good storyline and opening hook - paragraphs that maintain reader interest. Sage Sweetwater thanks the pulp heroes who created the pulp genre. Thank you dear readers. I love you all...
Pulp (Destry) Rides Again!
Her foot in many cultures
she finds beauty in few
others see, in cavalry
pack trains of the '30s
snaking down the Texas
rimrocks,
hot sweaty wax camps
where Mexicans boiled
the desert candelilla plant
over open fires to extract
the wax,
the dime store of the '30s,
home of the pulp cowboy.
Riding hell-bent-for-leather,
ten cents apiece, Pete Rice
Western, The Rio Kid Western,
Captives of the Frontier.
The lead characters defined
as heros, Ranch Romances,
By Myrtle Juliette Corey
and Austin Corcoran
Confronting the adversities
of the western American
frontier, "the flash of
de Martiga's gun, his
aim was off-hand, as he
had been shooting with a
Navy Colt."
She enters the dime store
in her mind, a flamboyant
pulpster herself, stands
stacked, in ten-row-tall
metal racks, western
pulps.
Phantasmagoric pulp
apparitions beckon
her "Come be like
us, Outlaws, inspiration,
tapping telegraph keys
to communicate Hollywood
cast, horse opera blended
with soap opera, the final
chapter in the frontier saga,
join us won't you Sweetwater."
Copyright 2006 Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist, brainchild of Sage Sweetwater Creative Properties, flagship of Stone Creek Woman
********************************
Stagecoach
traveling with copyright
as her companion, she
straightened her burgandy
velvet sleeve garters,
adjusted the tightness
of the snaps on her
Cordovan star-studded
leather wrist cuffs, and
secured the Western
firebrand manuscripts
that would make her famous,
inside her Old West tooled
pommel satchel, anticipating
the stagecoach's stop,
noon stage exact on
time, the horses ready
for some sweet molasses
oats and water, the driver
brought the stage to a halt,
dismounted and opened
the stagecoach door, she
climbed out, her boots
hitting the dirt of the town
that had no name,
she smoothed the
wrinkles in her wheat
frontier trousers, the
townsfolk caught sight
of her fame packed
voluptuously in her
lavender Western
fringed blouse filled
out like the lead
type in compartments
of a tray,
she walked across
the dusty street to
the printer, the woman
proprietor flaunting
the history of women's
persecuted quill about
to scorch this town that
had no name, kissed
her full on the lips in
plain view of the
townspeople, the
firebrand handed over
her pommel satchel,
the manuscripts hot
and sexy, "are these
what you have been
waiting for?"
of what would soon
be this century's
distribution of the
lesbian dialect, the
printing press met a
standard spelling system,
her press carried here
in 1856 by way of the
Oregon Trail to the town
that had no name, in her
ink-smudged apron, the
woman's nimble fingers
plucked the lead type
from compartments
in a tray, reading the
firebrand's stories on
the white paper and
set the blazing type
spelled backwards as
the words had to be a
mirror image of the
firebrand's uncensored
words printed on paper,
passed an ink roller over
the type, and with her
foot power turning the
flywheel leaving her hand
free to feed paper to
the press, the treadle
kept the rollers
in motion,
binding and stitching in
the daylight hours, back
of the shop fucking in the
evening, with ten books
between them stamped
with proper copyright,
two women writing in
Old West lesbian context,
acknowledge their lesbianism
and promote their press in a
dramatic increase of curious
sales with the acceptance
given to romantic friendships
between women who are telling
their stories and printing their
books,
and so the town
that had no name
was named Sweetwater,
and the stagecoach driver
who thought he got away
with the firebrand's
manuscripts stole the
identical impostor Old West
tooled pommel satchel with
blank sheets of paper as
thick as disguised manuscripts,
the top sheet written on, a
planted sizzling page turner
with the firebrand's byline
about Calamity Jane who
admitted she was a lesbian
and that her affair with Wild
Bill Hickok was a cover up
because he was also gay...
Copyright 2006 Sage Sweetwater,
firebrand lesbian novelist
thgirypoC 6581 egaS retawteewS,
dnarberif naibsel tsilevon
*******************************
Buffalo Gals
The lovestruck merchant
sent over a cameo brooch
to the piano player across
the street.
The piano player pinned on
the cameo, with her wealthy
bosom heaving from its
cleavage, walked to the
saloon's plate-glass
window and winked discreetly.
This wasn't the century for
lesbianism.
The noon stage delivered
Laura Ingalls Wilder, author
of "Little House" books.
She stopped in the General
Mercantile for a box of quills,
unruled tablets, and two bottles
of writing ink, for she had a
prairie novel set in her mind
where wagonwheels were the
vehicle that turned the page
and oil lanterns lit the way.
Tonight, the piano player signaled
the lovestruck merchant by playing
Buffalo Gals...Won't You Come Out
Tonight. The lovestruck merchant
had long closed the General Mercantile
and spent the rest of the evening
listening to the goings on at the saloon
from her room above the Mercantile.
Never mind what she could see out
the other window---a bunch of saloon
whores skinny-dipping in the moonlight
in the wild waters of the horse tank at
the livery stable.
Theirs was a cliffhanger serial affair,
picked up where it left off. The piano
player's wicked sensuality drove the
lovestruck merchant wild. At thirty,
the piano player was an exceptionally
built woman with a voluptuous bosom
and a small waist, sparkling green-blue
eyes and long chestnut hair she wore in
a lesbian knot at the nape of her neck.
She bathed herself in Milk of Roses and
powdered herself with La Dore's Powder
de Riz made from fine rice flour, both
toiletries from France, available through
Sears Roebuck and Company mail order.
The piano player turned the wick down to
douse it, then quickly rolled the glowing
wick back up for a signal to the lovestruck
merchant that the town was clear. Buffalo
Gals...Won't You Come Out Tonight..
Spin-off poetry from my short story BUFFALO GALS WON'T YOU COME OUT TONIGHT...please visit
Click here for full story!
Copyright 2006 Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist, brainchild of Sage Sweetwater Creative Properties, flagship of Stone Creek Woman
****************************************
Animas River Woman of Durango
I awoke to a
cold ground blizzard,
the chill factor well below
zero, the traders had made
trips to the woodpile, the
warmth of the crackling fire
thawed my eyelids, I saw her
on traders row in the San Juan,
kokanee salmon lying
on her table, Jim Bridger,
the first white man to set
eyes on her, stopped his
wagon filled with gunpowder,
balls, flints, bear traps, and
whiskey, asks Kit Carson,
who she is. Bridger takes off
his beaver hat, turns it up,
throws inside it a bottle of
whiskey and sets it on her
table, "Raise a little Cain,
Animas River Woman of
Durango," he said, picked
up one of her kokanee salmon
and walked off to his wagon
for a cast-iron skillet and
cooked his fish trade over
the crackling fire,
The buckskin tipis
weaved through the
vertical trunks of the
tightly-packed dog-hair
lodgepole, the sounds
are intimate, the grunts
and snorts of the elk
where rut has come, the
ground near the Animas
river muddy with elk prints,
the big bull tearing up the
sod with his antlers, I
make my way to Animas
River Woman of Durango
before the men get to her
in rut season,
I set my bubbling
cauldron of homemade
soup and a special flint
on her table, and picked
up one of her kokanee
salmon, "Raise a little
Cain, Animas River Woman
of Durango," I say, Jim Bridger
I laid eyes on her first, you
see, it's all how you do your
trading and your priorities,
the errant tomahawk sliced
my trade fish I am holding,
Kit Carson's throw way off
course in the men's competition
trader's row games, black
powder shooting, bow and
arrow, trap setting, skillet
throwing, and the like,
"bring the whiskey,
Animas River Woman
of Durango," I motion
her to my tipi not about
to find myself empty
handed after months
of isolation and hardship,
I demonstrate my primitive
fire starting technique, our
rendezvous hot, the flint
scintillating our naked flesh,
Mesa Verde cliffdwellers
arrive with their pots, a
very welcome sight on
trader's row, Jim Bridger
offers Animas River
Woman of Durango and I,
Sweetwater, a hand in
taking down our tipis and
took us off in his wagon
journeying on to the
Four Corners through Ignacio,
Cortez, and Mesa Verde where
we met Stone Creek Woman
who pointed up to a bird in the
sky and said, "It is up to the
pinon jay where to fly next,
but there is no reason not to
observe its flight."
Copyright 2006 Sage Sweetwater,
firebrand lesbian novelist
**********************************
Midnight in Montgomery
you unfasten your black
and brass suspenders and
take off your frontier canvas
pants, sit at your desk, staring
at your cobalt square glass
inkwells, four of your favorite
colors, blue, verdi, bordeaux,
tobacco sienna, dip your goose
quill, your pocket watch from
another time timing the
celebration of lighting the candle
and melting the red-wick mailable
wax, heart design wax seal, I sit
in the corner on the parlor rocker,
you pull your silver lonestar
slide down on your lavender
silk jacquard neck scarf,
unbutton your white cotton
twill bib blouse, I bite the
filagree buttons, you pay
me to kiss your lawless
breasts, unpin your Brothel
Inspector badge and put
it in your ivory box with the
painted acanthus leaf,
neverminding the government
who employs you as brothel
inspector, your authentic
job title in this Old West town,
the brothel where I work,
you lay me on your
brass-trimmed iron bed
and leave me to pleasure
myself while you write your
resignation letter, and when
you are ready to seal it, you
put flame to the wick and walk
to me, tilting the candle,
dripping with excitement, the
hot spillage on my breasts, you
stamp me with your heart design
wax seal, and then you walk back
to your desk and light the
resignation letter on fire, toss it
into the waste basket, Midnight
in Montgomery, you step outside
and toss the flaming waste basket
into the side of the brothel, knowing
they would not accept your
resignation, a crime of passion...
Copyright 2006 Sage Sweetwater,
firebrand lesbian novelist
The Lavender Outlaw is in the House!
The Firebrand Rocks!
Sage Sweetwater's Authors Den poetry being transcribed to song by Iceland Songwriter Finnur Bjarki
Sage Sweetwater Lesbian Songwriter Inducted into Porterhouse Music
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THE BUCKSKIN SKIRT OAR TRAVELER
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FROM THE CONVENT TO THE RAWHIDE: THE SAGA OF SADIE CADE AND VI MONTANA
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