Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Creosote Bushes... Desert Holly




Creosote Bushes... Desert Holly

Weeks...
months pass
in a haze.

It feels like
desert shack
summer.

A woman is on a gold overstuffed chair,
knees drawn up to small breasts,
a brief blue cotton dress
at her narrow hips,
no panties,
long ebony hair
tangled wild.

The cement
floor
has a brittle
membrane
of Linoleum.

Exile
is not
a
vacation.

There are mortal facts
in the bloodstream,
which is
no excuse.
Money grins.
Pink ribbons
travel far.

It is raining
outside
an empty
room.

There will
be
flash floods,
snapped off
lives.

Out on the highway,
truck air horns
argue
with one another
like bible camp
children.

Now the man is alone
and the woman
is in a $69
Kingman
motel.

Goodbye
is an owl
at twilight...
light pole
perched.

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