We met at the crossroads,
a desert wayside
windswept and in-between
marred by cold fronts
leaving marks on the high peaks
just to disintegrate
into the fallacy of black heat.
Hugging your festival fabric,
no more than a discarded heap,
it was singed with music.
you pull out maps in motels
liminal cells to author the unlimited
to commence from nowhere towns
halting the empty space with solitary stoplights.
A brief respite against the all-encompassing night
descending in shadows across our fields of sight.
Soon there will be galaxies over our shoulders,
stars streaming into Cretaceous insects
feeding on the scraps of confinement we lay before them.
The next day the highway was a straight line
for hundreds of miles of mesas and heat mirages
spray painting the desert with abandoned messages,
searching for the remains of an icon,
we come across a cap over the blaze
in the place his spirit went out.
Blackened initials scrawled in stone,
forever scorched in memory.
Dead flowers left in this valley of dry bone,
blues that do not bloom on their own
but bear fruit from within you,
a lonesome tune
that by night floats to the moon
bejeweled in cloud fabric.
Pens become the only friends
that will populate this thoughtful insomnia.
Pulling words from this drawer
the hour would not keep confined
to its dusty enclosure.
Eyes follow the asphalt blur,
writing you choose to destroy by re-writing,
words wet and regenerative in this parched land,
soon tendril out of the sand,
harvested as art,
from the prickly confines of its skin.
Jagged art, shattered from within.
Sharp fragments of explanation
others may gaze into
and find their own skewed reflections.