Remember,
he's the golem.
Not the god of unending
desperation,
but only a minion,
a ******* child
with no inheritance.

Don't forget
he's the golem
in time of dust and whirlwind.
Reap it, and weep it,
wasted tears for ******
children and **** stars
are futile.

Recall
he's the golem.
Stagnant pools have awakened,
roaring like tsunamis. Black men
shot for no reason, praying
in Spanish punishable
by death.

Reminesce.
He's the golem.
Golden staircase leads to hell.
There is no heaven, only
mothers weeping. ****
the land, laugh at dying heroes,
"Winning."

Regret
he's the golem.
Truth has laid her face against
the stone, its cold facade
no comfort. The blade descends
on liberty.  We are her
cast-off children.

Just under the skin
the water waits,
blood pulsing milky
veins through the Great
Basin, love child of
a dying sea.

No long grass here,
no bison.
Only horses at the wedding.
Long slow wash of sand
births wonder stone. Broken
water drinks the desert's tears.

Bedding soon becomes
a sage's goal, and wiser
women often fail us.
A single coyote cries
below her hill, and waiting,
hears the Basin sigh.

A line as slow
and undulating as the Tongue
marks the horizon. Last summer's
fireline shadows the jaw
of the sandstone ridge.

Broken shards of hand-napped
tools litter the path. Sun drops,
and bison-dust rises
across the plain. One crystal tear
slides down the cheek of sky.

Nighthawk shrieks, and diving,
takes his prey. The Tongue laps
far below, ripples over pebbles
a song to soothe water monsters
who take us after dark.