in the moonscape of sandy flats
on warm stones, far from water
thoughts arrive
deep like drowning. shocked
in a neuron firestorm
the sun will cast my shadows in every direction
like a compass gone mad from bipolar magnetism
this is a wild west funeral
a coffin-parade through dusty towns
lost from lost beings
a backwards dance, backtracking my walk on the wrong path
life has spiraled out of my hands, and into the hands of the spiral
don't bother with that wooden cross
i'm not done yet
when i am
the birds will pick me apart
the color on their beaks will taste
like red nothing
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