No Tequila Sunrise
This year
So the old man
In the chair
In front of the Morning Glory
Will not have to carry
Students out of the planter beds
By the Navajo Mission
In a wheelbarrow.
II.
The gold grass of the old
Potato field is still,
The pinecones fragrant,
Gold frosting on the ponderosas
Where needles fall through sun
To a blanket of circles.
The mind must slow
To the whispers of the trees
To even see the jays.
III.
The faces let you in
The fat old Chinese bastard
And his friends
Their heads still hold
In the sky
Nothing surprises them
No matter how low we've fallen.
The saguaros on the other hand
Have thrown up their arms
In a kind of surrender.
They'll give you photos
And give you codes
But what they feel about it
You won't know
It is what it is
So it goes
No word can even stand
In judgement
Although we try to talk it up
As if this eerieness
Is a passing phase
And the trials of the desert rats
Are merely nothing to speak of,
One quotient of madness
In a day brushed with chaos.
You go into the dust and the spikes
To find the desert's heart
And go farther than you'd ever imagine
You could go
And it only opens up
When you've given up hope
Of ever finding a home.
