The north wind fiercely ravages the dust.
Frustration mounts to match savage wheezing.
Only one more day, I promise to myself:
The moondog has not found the passage back yet.
Poor ol' fuzzy tarantula with no head and only two legs.
Angry winds push my stone body against direction;
My feet stumble among the mountain's residue.
Beauty must be here in this place, somewhere.
I search, unflustered, in perpetual days of empathy.
Pathetic, doomed horned lizard, extinct before birth.
Harvest ants have no empathy for such trifles.
With burning tears, I buried the replica of the desert.
Its spirit appeared in facsimile and disappeared to its destiny again.
One more day brings tomorrow with no return.
Regrettably perhaps, maybe not, suspended on the wind.
West winds are always a combustible irritant;
North, refreshing, unless vengeful.
Sad little toad who failed to return to the soil beneath.
My eyes still search for a reflection of my own zodiacal light;
Born with knobby knees of the Man in the Moon,
We hobbled and danced often to the music of the stars.
He taught me to paint crimson shadows and forge a golden horn.
When time came to establish my own nimbus, we wept.
Meteors guided my flight on exquisite equine to home of the hunter,
Where I cleansed in the opiate dipper that spilled me toward the desert.
Our voices joined in lachrymose organum: Au Plaisir de Vous Revoir.
I fell into the path of Lido's son (playing the harp), and spun off course.
My moonskin seared in rays of devouring competition of reflections.
Reflections that were only fractures in the place of the anxious phoenix bird.
There I became entangled in arms of the lyre's inventor,
Healing only superficially in the gray homes of the mound-builders.
Like the toad and tarantula and horned lizard, I had to perish.
A crack in the trembling earth shook my spirit free.
Stumbling, I found my father's breath in the reflective desert.
But there are no spectacles in the desert:
Except in the eyes of the furtive roadrunner who regards me as a lizard
Except in the downy comfort of the one who unlimitedly loves me
Except in the shadow that sunwarms my shoulder in November
Except in the heliotrope that brims the azure sky at twilight
Except in the softened graveyard of the Sugar Bear Tree
Except in the purification of celebratory creosote rain
Except in the graceful coils of the feline rattlesnake
Except in the ambush of the vortex of golden dust
Except in the melodious cacophony of night stars
Except in the perfumed desert, no reflections.
No reflections, no lyres, no spectacles ever.
There are no gods in the mountains
Except for the scattered ashes rising up the pinion tree
Or the rushing torrent of reflective debris
That nourishes our desert.
Fifteen black orchids anticipating dayflight.
One spreads his wings to open the entry for the moondog
Onto the desert road of the phantom tower
With labored breathing of the vulture flying too close overhead.
But it's too early to return northward and too beautiful to rest.
February 7, 2009