They call it crude.

The dessicated then carboxilated, carbonified,
****** of dead Permian flesh.

This is the reason the salamanders die.
Corporeal concreted, mummified, fossilized.

This is the reason we dance.
Dirges of West Texas dirt romances.
Lost in the flares,
Caught in the gases blaring making nostrils glare.

Requiescat in pace.

All these women.
Dancing through the caliche,
Giving a reason to taste the air.
Through one breath of speechless.

The loam is never settled where boots tread and weather.
Destroying bedrock through hydrolic fracking to the earths core.

I land my toes in the sand of the Llano.
I ******* Mexicans, greasy, with cheese,
With.



Hot.
Sauce.



Dorthy never went to the fest of Oil.
But there's no place like home.
Her silver slippers or prosthesis feet placed instantaneously upon me.
Would bring me directly into a thorny,
Patch of Mesquite.