Daybreak and weathered men with their fermented drinks,
make way for the morning.
Doorways dimly lit beyond the ruins of lesser worlds,
older boys laughing aloud,
Near the honest sun
and the absent clouds.
The mesa seemed heavy as birds shimmered above-
whats their place in all this land?
Mornings were always cold
even while sunbeams flourish,
The farmhands copper in color, congregate near cattle, pipes in hand, hoping for good days ahead.
I think we stayed at every good hotel in the West.
We were really living the good life.
Nothing like a little drug money to help you indulge in
the finer things.
"Easy come Easy go"
Only people who have never sold drugs can say that.
Dealing with whackos
Getting robbed at gunpoint
Driving across the country with enough weight to get you
Life in Prison.
Stressful. Very stressful.
So we'd stay in Fancy Resorts.
Knowing one day it would all end
May as well enjoy it while you can
Because eventually you get caught
And if you make it out alive, all you have are the memories.
Like that time we were staying at the Royal Palms
Next to the former President's family.
Getting up from the pool, smoking crystal behind the cactus
While the former first lady swam laps.
She still looked pretty good in a bathing suit.
--and the grand canyon is
getting smaller behind you
while your heart is getting
bigger, ready to burst,
craving a return to the journey:
when red dust reflected on
your sunglasses instead of
your side mirrors, the rearview,
when the car mileage hadn't hit
about the southwest settles
under your skin like an itch.
it's almost like-- it feels like--
you're finally finding out that
this must be what it is to be
rozlyn's christmas poem
You broke the umbilical cord attached to this earth . With the south by southwest winds you rode a baleful streak . Like Poncho your life was left untold . Like a desert prayer that's just a whisper in the cold evening air .
Where they laid your body to rest , no one said . Now it's too late .
The virga falls never to quench the thirsty sands . The sorrow is planted as corn in rows of fertile futility . And dust is harvested , dust and tumbleweeds .
Reasons are the excuses we need to answer all the questions why . There is no reason in the south by southwest wind . And the tumbleweeds bend to the sympathy of an incessant desire .
— The End —