The American Dream

A sickness
seeps into me
on the way out
of Death Valley

I ask my travel friend
to abandon me
and sleep inside
a dilapidated shed

Until my ears
can stand sea level again
and my soul
can stand people again

A young guy
at the gas station
offers me
a place to sleep

Bleach soaked
into old wood
starving puppies
nibbling at my fingers

I help trim weed
and hear his life story
passing the time
staring out to the yard

as relics of his past
erode away
further and further
by desert winds and dust

old sinks rusted cars
wicker chairs
and a playground set
tools bicycles tin cans
and mummified plants

these lands
strip everything down
to it’s nucleus
and out of that void
erupt brush and cacti
reptiles and insects
slowly revealing
layers and complexities
of colour and texture

it was his grandmas house
he wants to travel

he doesn’t usually let people over
he’s sorry for the mess

his mom’s addicted to meth
his brother lost 100 pounds doing yoga

He’s generous forgiving and naive
America’s Lost Heart

He doesn’t hit on me at all
But he does
what my druggie boyfriends used to do
He drops me off
saying he’ll be back in an hour
and he’s gone all day

I wander up
the deserted desert hills

distant mountain ranges
fold into each other
like piles of tossed laundry

Sun sets
in hubba bubba pinks
on a 360 degree horizon

In winter
those mountains look like
a salt rimmed margarita

It used to be an oasis
but it’s all dried up now

A giant black snake
sucks out all the water
and brings it to Los Angeles
to flush away the feces
of all the Hollywood assholes

A giant black snake
uncoils from my belly
heaving and sucking
the darkness from my soul
like the giant metal insects
that suck the black honey from the earth

I remove a spike
from a large cactus
and cut into my flesh
until my breath cools

An old swing hangs
on it’s last thread
like a noose

Mountain lions prey
where the children used to play