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.  Her commitment to literary excellence and accuracy is defended. The quality of Sage Sweetwater’s work resides on Authors Den where it is showcased, which has withstood screening, critique, rejection, scandal, and controversy.  Success is the best motivation.  Sage Sweetwater has written many volumes, and what she has got in return are the fans, a faithful readership who knows Sage Sweetwater lays out a good storyline and opening hook, stanzas and paragraphs that maintain reader interest.  Sage Sweetwater thanks the pulp heroes who created the pulp genre.

          It is the Night of the Foal 2009.  The New Riders of the Purple Sage glorify the frontier years of the American West—reminiscent of the years of the brothel—1800s—following collectively the years of Jett Durango and how she came to be—the creation of a lesbian dime store novelist.

          Silver inlaid zodiac skirts on her stirrups poured fire to her desire.  Jett Durango was saddled upon the wind, her firebrand breath slipped under another woman’s black cape.  Passion branded the woman’s scalding hot flesh, the reins soaked in her hands.  Jett Durango’s sledgehammer struck blows against the metal.  With her spike bar, she pried out a rail from the track.  She would stop the train to get the Colt Revolvers, the disguised preachers.

          The preachers saw her moccasin eyelets from the train windows; branded Jett Durango as an outlaw of God.  The train wheels locked.  Grinding and squealing, the metal sparks exploded.  They danced in the air like witch’s fireflies.  Jett Durango was the creation of a dime novelist. The flames glowed from the firebox.  Branding the land with the devil’s coals, Jett Durango saved the bibles.  She pulled them out with a grappling hook that dallied from the rope on her saddle horn.

          The collection plate money burned.  The strong boxes melted.  The preachers’ charred keys were at the end of the line.  With the second-ago selective memory, like the train leaping from the track, Jett Durango leaped from her saddle, fucking the woman, slamming to earth, grinding deep trenches into the soil.  It was screaming passion of one of the boldest ambushes of religious lies Jett Durango had been called upon to chronicle.  There were no bodies.  No twisted metal.  No blood of Christ deceivers.

          The telegraph repairman found only an empty whiskey bottle and Jett Durango’s woman’s black cape hanging from the telegraph cross.  The newspaper reported it as the boldest lesbian tryst hot enough to stop a train.

          The preachers’ last breaths were accompanied by the banshee; the charred black train, those in their invisible coffins, Jett Durango’s grimoire opened, her horse in saddle.  She banished dirty money. She cleansed the trainwreck from the preachers’ bane white collars laundering deception and spreading brainwashing religious propaganda on the devil’s rail.