"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