written by: Casimir Wojciech
The shadows of saguaros are hungry eyes
watching cigarette smoke
give hands to the wind.
Bodies are daylight and sorrow,
the milk of twisted blades.
An agony lies horizontally
this ripple inside the gut, saying,
make a dance floor of worms
sifting Self from cold air
lights flicker in the panic
desert distance, somebody
cries televisions, crawls thru
the knuckle scarred hallways, looks
at the moon's lesions.
Enough to turn on the radio and think of elephants.
Desert of love, desert of survival,
cold dada gardens,
Pride comes from vanity
reverie comes from coffin
which is my stage.
The stars show teeth in bitter ecstasy
drinking blood, decayed reveille
back to its tomb. Hope and fear.
Below in the arroyo a coyote
comes from the shadow. Night
is all its ever had, it's voices
seldom draw breath
away from the kill
which is carrying music and planets
on winter's stillborn shoulders.