the grit
on the wind
infinitely
howling
scours the
entirety of
sweetwater
in a collage
of rusted
machinery
a fecundity
of drab ochre
on a flat plane
drenched in
beige amid
grand forests
of fiberglass
spindles

there is a
frank honesty
in sweetwater
a sense the
sandblasting
has removed
any pretense
the burrs of
hope worn down
to glittering
nubs slowly
buried in red

i stand nude
in front of the
hotel as the
semis rumble
down the road
wishing the
devil’s breath
in the stinging
red grit removes
these tattered
technicolored
soullesions
leaving nothing
but a skeleton
thumb out seeking
to hitch a ride
anywhere else

the best parts
of me tangled
in tumbleweeds
rolling lazily
across cinnamon
plains lost among
the cacti and
rattlesnakes
seeking salvation
in the billowing
clouds of terracotta
dreamtempests