Poetry by
on friday afternoon we drove into the desert to die
on friday afternoon,
we drove into the desert to die.
ur radio spluttering npr,
or grunge rock, or static–
what really matters
is that it spluttered
and we were sweating,
sticking to dirty leather,
sleeveless shoulders so sunburnt
i peeled up in paint chips.
u shot down all my jokes along the way because u were the funny one.
i was dirty sneakers on a dashboard,
i was a dry mouth with watering eyes–
and all i wanted were ur eyes on me, begging ur attention for one last meal
like a coyote stalks a hare across sandstone. u were too busy watching for traffic
in the empty road.
in the forest, the highway
rises up above the trees,
stretching to the sky,
to the god u gave up on,
my god of mutual ghosting.
here, though, the pavement
is the color of ur inner arm,
the texture of my temperament,
no elevation lost or gained.
somewhere in the atlas
in the glovebox,
i know i saw an off-ramp.
just not here.
And We Will Be Beautiful
my want runs a fever at the sight of your jaw. for a moment, surely, I can indulge
the snake basking in my garden.
delusions begin:
we will be different, and we will be beautiful.
your shoulders blind me to all harms.
we are the only people in this empty world.
my beloved, nothing blossoms in the Chesapeake, shadowed by shipwrecks, laden with ghosts. home is a wasteland
and love is future-facing: it needs a blank slate. we must hitch all our oxen;
we must sweat our way west.
we will be different, and we will be beautiful.
glimpsing the trail of your hair overcomes my guilt. if I am to sin, it will be with you,
wind our officiant, moon our blessing,
our lumbering drafts the only vows.
we will be different, and we will be beautiful.
I watch your hands smooth away my self-awareness. I will help you clear the land,
building something to last the winter,
growing sinewed alongside you.
no tree can stand against me in your arms. we will be different, and we will be beautiful.
your voice brings me to time beyond time,
willful ignorance singing by the woodfire stove, feigned innocence nursing your frontier baby.
the fever breaks;
the verdict crawls back on its belly.
there can be no more pretending
we would be different, and we would be beautiful.
Concerning the Forecast in San Diego County
O so-cal, sing to me
of the man in the cab of many turns
the botanist who points to alien trees, saying even to locals, they are alien arrivals
even to aliens, they are otherworldly
O so-cal, sing to me
of a sun that sets over a sea
raining fire and ash beyond my horizon
beyond pitchblack crows and portents bordering a country devoid of compassion
O so-cal, sing to me
of arms and the plateau cowboy
forced by fate to meet eyes under snow months early, he knows it will be
the driest year on record
O so-cal, sing to me
of drought under brutal equatorial sun
in this may-grey, marine layered desert salted breeze brings no relief
my branches catching kelp in freezing waves
O so-cal, sing to me
of flowers still somehow blooming
as I interlope in another’s life jarred by sweet nectar on the air in the midst of all this unyielding
O so-cal, sing to me
of tile murals of the virgin hanging ten
I speak none of Tijuana’s tongue
but red tiles and crossed cathedrals
are my only kin among rows of cactus lawns
O so-cal, sing to me--
I go east
I give up
I go into the bright dawn
good God, finally
the rains have come.