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.