Friars in Action at Park Bar Detroit

sonora

If the ground wasn't so hard, I'd dig you out that grave, not that I want you in it, just that that is the only place I fantasize you. Red dust blowing strands of hair washing out washes and passes, into the eyes which used to be able to see the horizon. When you travel south, getting out of the city, and see what the desert was, that's when you look back and spit, and the spit comes easy enough.

The moon is much larger tonight as the cold consumes what was so fucking hot a minute ago. A ruddy skinned man stands on my corner like the sun at midnight. Since nothing seeps into soil here, you've got to believe it's making its way into our skin, you've got to believe that the desert doesn't want what we're laying down. The stench of this tree fills the air around it for a dozen feet, winning me with such a putrid reminder of the stagnation of the air here.

The desert should mean silence, should mean a giant moon reflecting on the plants so specifically evolved that they catch the light of each day and hold it til morning, but now they only catch the light of the neon sign on the liquor store that makes them look out of place like scrub. The desert doesn't help you forget hastily made choices, echoing words that should be absorbed by soft grass, the dead leaves, the grass here only amplifies your folly, catches the lie or the truth or whatever the fuck it is and hangs in the air like a bleached carrion feast.

H