Wednesday, October 1, 2008

"I've been through the desert..."

A Man About A Horse

gone to see a man about a horse,
sand stinging my eyes,
hand raised to face,
shielding against low, desert sun

deserting the swing of gallows
I myself constructed,
abandoning the rope left dangling
of my own lasso

walking tall into The Wasteland,
quixotic, with only an Identi-kit,
godless, gunless, anonymous,
in pursuit of self amidst a basin and range
of place name Spanish saints,
pressing on into the arid breath
of Santa Ana winds,
my cotton mouth cannibalizing
what remains of me
and so, cheating birds of prey
soaring over valleys of death,
carrying only the ashes of dead uncles
along with my father's fading memories,
tracking the cast of their long shadows,
in search of my own upon time's shifting sands

image: Pablo Picasso's Don Quixote

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