in the reds and blues there be a youth,
looking toward mountain and sky,
finding the signal there:
the buzz of joshua.
the whisper of the desert pine.
the verse of the desert flower
(not native, but belongs here anyway.)
in the blues there be a bigger truth
call her she, call her me,
call her the cheeks upon which sacred sun
strokes a brush of suppler color
upon the bludgeoned earth:
i, may be she,
pluck my words,
draw my concentrates,
drop them in a pineneedle basket,
let them bleed out.
in the dust of the foreign land,
in the crease of a better hand
in the yellows, the oranges,
most importantly the bluer hues.
the din of muted tunes.
i tap syllables on the basket rim,
they drip, dry
and i hang them upon a clean sheet
over the sunset tones.
from here we live to document.