Weeds are sleeping. High Noon. The Desert opens its dry mouth.
Legs wobble over loose gravel, barely stirring the lethargic,
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.
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.
Protected by shadows that do not melt, shadows
that create the desert.
Whiskey in hand.
The sky is dead.
A muddy sun aches in memory; an
unconscious fire, leaping
into dark waters.
Loneliness fades in deep congested
pressure, a million sea
couldn’t lift her waste
Salty seaweed slowly crept down her throat,
entangling itself in soft
asphyxiation. Her beautiful body swelled
with the sea,
tides turned and turned over
purple lips in a green dress,
spitting her raw
out into silver moon beams.
The wind stalled after striking
her cold cheek. Shiftless.
Idle in a sodden night,
offering nothing more for
to feed on.
So, life takes her flesh,
sacrifices her meat to
burning her bones into the