Said good-bye
to the high desert gods.
Came undone,
wandering the wilds
in search of old
coyote medicine.
Tempted by an autumn twilight
out into the cool darkness,
only to find truth
was the Devil
in a fire serpent.
Baking in high noon.
Skin turned white as ash
at the touch.
The smell of old rot,
and there was no life left
to pursue.
Came home
to sanitized correction.
Suburban civil engineering
staking out an endless expanse
of ill-designed tracts
for future convalescent homes.
The prettiest trap
set for the dumbest prey,
but at least
they get a bigger cage.
Even the songs
recalled from the desert
are sung by ghosts.
Feeble attempts at resurrection
that would never take today.
Fake nostalgia,
looking like bad Botox
and cheap hair plugs.
The fact is,
no one who died in the desert
would ever want
to live
in a world like this one.
Every soul sold,
and every memory defiled.
Even love
doesn’t hit like it used to.
As if every cheap fuck
is a touch from that old fire serpent
and the skin
starts to turn to ash
and the buzzing of flies.
There’s a sandstorm coming.
One that’s gonna wipe
all this clean.
There won’t even be
ghosts to sing anymore,
because even they
are gonna get swept away
this time.
All these cities,
these buildings,
these rows of houses
staked out on once fertile land;
they’ll all be gone, too.
Just dust.
Maybe some future race
will wander here,
chasing the visions
of some new tomorrow.
Maybe they will meet
with the touch
of the fire serpent,
and the cycle
will continue.
.
.
DJR – 2022
