Death in the American Desert

Death in the American desert
seems romantic when colored only in words
moulting red tailed hawks
Queen of the Night Cactus
in full bloody bloom
mesas and arroyos
Sonora
seems like the evocative background
of a hundred bright burning and romantic murders
the collage of stark plain colors
and deeds of desperation and bold failure
that could crawl through us
bleeding pleasure
pouring as a flash flood from Spring's rains
as a cascade from the amygdala, center of aggression
to leave us as a cracked blood stain in the dust

Death in the American desert
is suffering for days in delirium
you idiots
you soft white inner thighs
you blistered heels
you cracked and bleeding lips

Death in the American desert
is not a heritage and a badge of honor
it is the dearest fear of the prideful pilgrims of the West
the Leviathan that ate the crops of Oklahoma
and the laggard that trailed behind the ice age
as nothing more than a barren glacial moraine