I approach poetry and spirituality like literary nitroglycerin -- a little can do a lot and you better damn well be careful with it.

Henry figured that the reason the Cheyenne had always ridden Appaloosas into battle was because by the time the men got there, they were so angry with the horses they were ready to kill everything.

The place was packed as we flooded in, all the patrons freezing at the sight of an armed sheriff, two deputies, an Indian, and a construction worker; we probably looked like the Village People.

Temptation out of reach does you no good.

I looked over at her; if women knew how good they looked in the dash light of oversized pickup trucks, they'd never get out of them.

He mulled that over. "Sheriff Connally woulda let us shoot 'em." I reached over and took his coffee away from him. "Yep. Lucian probably would have done the job himself, but we're living in more enlightened times." I drained his cup and handed it back with a smile. "Ain't it grand?

A writer, like a sheriff, is the embodiment of a group of people and without their support both are in a tight spot.