through the desert sea

I chiseled out an ancient face
and hanged it in my head
though it was not quite alive as I
was waiting to be dead

we trudged together through a desert
smoked a fat cigar
nibbled on dirty tortoise shells
burned our feet on tar

it went like this for twenty years
or thirty, or probably more
long enough that desert sand
began dripping from my pores

and now my skin has turned to bone
and my pretty name is aging
my ancient face is chiseled out
my brain is disengaging

and though I’m not quite as alive
as I would like to be
I am grateful for my blistering walk
through the desert sea

Then He Asks Me For A Prayer

it won’t be long

the Japanese death garden sings wildly
across the world

I whistle back, a soft. black tune
and lose my eyes to winter

I sleep with her on desperate nights,
her hard skin teaches me
God’s lessons.

I am a body of ache for men to pour their
pain into, she tells me how to behave.
I cry that I am to be a desert,
I am naked, on my way there.

She holds me quick, against her cold
and blows me into prayer,
I lay deep in hell, but I swear, God touches me here.

He reaches through me and pulls
out a song. He whispers,  “it won’t be long”
then asks me, again, for prayer.

The Desert Is Infected pt.2

My eyes settle blue on boulders,
on the desert.
She doesn’t know I am here.
She doesn’t know how I watch her,
or how I crawl with
tortoise in patient crawl or
how I soar with her carnivorous
vulture.

She is like woman,
like God
and sperm
and sea
all at once.

Her magic is dry and alive.
What is
to hate is to love.

She acts like death
but her surface is in force.
Her dry stomach spreads thin.
Her hot mounds curve Earth.
Her treasured liquid leaks from
her spike covered fruit.

She is dangerous.
She does not fear exhausted corpse’.
She swallows inside out,
spits it out and keeps it
for company

and when  buzzards come
and when  flies come
and when  suns change course

she will suck dry
hard bones
deep within her sand
burying them
in her desert forever.

The Desert Is Infected

The cold Earth is opening.
The desert is infected.

Starving cacti throb with hunger;
the land sweats poverty through
cracks in the street.

Ants are in a glass jar.
I gather them,
preach to them;
let them pray in the hot sun.
Then, I kneel as one of
God’s knights
and slaughter each with a slow dime.

Money is priceless.
So is time.
The desert is infected.

September In The Desert

Be still,
or churn,
like butterfly milk,
like curdled cream.
I dreamed that we cannot dream past September.

Maybe God will explode then,
and all the stars
and all the planets
and all the moons
and all the science
and all the religion
will mix together in a giant tornado

and the desert will no longer be
and then,
I will no longer be.

The Desert

Weeds are sleeping. High Noon. The Desert opens its dry mouth.
Legs wobble over loose gravel, barely stirring the lethargic,
thirsty Earth.

The arid land has an asphalt tongue. I sit on it.
I melt to it.
A plastic shadow. Dried up. Destroyed

by the sun. Liquidated
by a watching light.

Red bugs have armor. Guardian’s of flight. Protection
from the land.
Turtles carry
shields,
and teeth. I evaporate.

An old actor rocks on a blue porch. He doesn’t
know the desert like I do. Never has sunk in its smoldering
August sand or been whipped by flaming winds.
He rocks.
Protected by shadows that do not melt, shadows
that create the desert.
He rocks.
Whiskey in hand.
He rocks.

I evaporate. Into the weeds.
To sleep.