Twenty-six

Sunday Cringe time folks!


Dry

Anticipating
desert extremes.
The dry cleasing heat
of day,
dry numbing chill
of night.
Without the taste of gasoline
a mellow stink on my tounge
in my nostrils.
Instead
I would that I smell
mesquite smoke
and sage.
A session time with my Maker.

Craving
sharp mornings,
kicking through canyons
sneezing my brains out,
eyes leaking and
I
desire
the desert.

To shed my clothing
run naked and hungry,
howling at sister
Moon.
To desert-starve the toxic waste
of self
and partake of
nothing but canteen,
Sun,
Moon and my Maker.

Enough space to not
to hear myself think.

I
desire
the desert.