In Black Canyon City

A well-named place, where one can live
As a pretender,
With a rattlesnake-handled knife,
Can celebrate
Bad water, broken (satellite) dishes,
Dark hills in all directions
With only the ghostly waving
Of bursage and creosote.
It makes a man crazy enough
To say what's on his mind,
To loosen himself from banality and restriction
And hitch to some wide-open dream
Of fighting as defense,
Exploitation as survival,
Social contract as shared blood.

As sunset arrives above Bloody Basin Road,
It seems too exciting—
The silence only broken by the whipping wind,
Everyone positioned on the outside
So that maybe, just maybe, the dark insides may flower.