I lose myself somewhere along desert road. Desert road tangos. Wind slaps me, with hitchèd song. Voice, full and tragic, tragedy on mount; Siren at air's expense. It dives in my back, a knife in my shoulderblade, smooth cusp piercèd membrane seething, snarling-gargling crimson saliva. Tackles me, presses, grinds me, lick the asphalt, taste my sand, I own this land. I shape it needs me. I lead it dogs me. I speak Who Am I? Friend nor foe. I swallow curling wind, and song dies, dries.

Desert road fox trots. No, waltzes. Anyway, it dances. I don't.

Better than Who, Are You? Shockèd air retreats. Wind is a mallard, lacking another in its wake. Brings heat light, gives orators ground. Fingers stir sinister soup, but poppies mask coattails. Run, red, like the color you are. Level your thumb in cool calculus of evening, tote guitar, spawn another Siren in pockets of air.

And acknowledge, you and I: We are a turkey.
» Bartholomew on 2006-06-30 10:29:50

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