The desert surrounds. All arid and bare. This throat is dry. These eyes have tired. It is warm. Summer approaches. Golden orb in blue expanse. Cloud formations like none before seen. Little rodents cross paths. Lizards scatter when foot touches dirt. Swarms of bees test passersby. A red/brown snake five feet in length flicks its tongue at me. It’s black eyes never waver. These sounds can not be properly captured. This air and these insects and all this life cannot be pictured. I needed to be alone with my thoughts today. I couldn’t stay there, uncomfortable and bare. No more skin to hide these brittle bones. All my flesh ripped. I have been exposed. Winds whisper warnings and the traveler refuses to listen. It will not prove to be the last time he has been made to feel foolish.
A car passes and I am back.
What road is this, what path have I taken. A mound — an anthill — an army of ants as red as fresh blood are battling the sun and foreign invaders. Who dares to threaten this soundlessness, this silent and perfect place? Any tie to reality is untied. Nothing remains as beads of sweat roll down my cheeks. Not water pouring from any other place. Is it possible to be sickened by sound? Pen against paper. Flapping wings against ears. Cries of dispassion and unknowing fear. What happened here all those years ago? What has brought me back? A memory? A sound? Perhaps the search for a feeling that once enriched our lives. There is no one to share with, I am a glutton for this stark nothingness. The time is approaching, I must leave. Wind whipping stiff limbs of desert trees. All my heart has been bled out like sap from my trunk. I could sleep here in peace. Rise and set with the sun. I’m feeling done. Well-done. Over-done. Scraps for a coyote. Tossed out and cursed. To rot. The golden globe slips behind a cliff, so I’ll ready my things and go.
Frank Palmes – Troubled ’bout My Soul
Hobart Smith – Rocky Mountain
John Hammond Jr. – Little Birdie
The Litter – Soul-Searchin’
