No Artist Out West

His seared look, from a painted gird brow dons, a face like Van Gogh with both ears, though just, as lost, looks about an empty room of challenges, that is built high on lost convictions, drowns in a, festering of desperation, as sweats beads a stench, on an unswept floor, wavering, between old unhealed, wounds of a, dark past, all attached to young love, and their new miseries. He takes a swig and walks away from a sultry, sway as a piano's light tune, breaks off key and, holds, as a blown off woman pops her gum and, snobs at his direction unnoticed and wanders off, while a glib man in slick clothes offers a chance at, cards, he simply walks away until a chair moves, from behind, it's slick, he then stops with his back, still faces him, a chair slides back, he walks on. He comes up to the man at the piano, who is a bit, jittery, asked hm if he knew a song called, 'Ole Susanna', he replied saying that he never heard of, that song, he then steps back a spell and figured, him to be from the north, and gives him a look like, a Picasso painting for he knows that people out West, knows, 'Ole Susanna', so he's thinking that things are, afoot here in this town, as he looks around at stares. He backs away, on back to the bar, takes a final swig, as a jingled coin settles to silence in the uncanniness, of a quietude western bar, as he dons his hat, the, bartender hollers that set the bar back to its norm, girls, giggling, cards shuffling, piano playing, and all of the, joviality returns, as the new guy in town, hops on a horse, and pulls away as a normal western town fades in the sun as, a drifter stops, turns and sees afar off, a painting by Monet.