claro casket

Busting bricks off the overpass, the freeway snipers and dim glow of an orange sunset. I miss El Paso, the caramel rivers of Mexican Caravan's, petite taco vendors and inky Juárez faded blue tattoo's. Child-Asesino's with automatic rifles, the Sinaloa Cartel and their fancy diamond-etched marijuana belt buckles, the Zeta's and their pearled bathtubs full of dismembered officials, barrels of pack-mule cocaine.

I always wanted to be a shadow of death in old Mexico, the clank of agonizing produce-wagons, the hordes of toothless bandito, suicidal black flies at the mouth, the lifeless brim of the biggest sombrero and gold-plated pistol, star-shaped spurs and stolen gringo ostrich boots in the dirt. A robusto cigar, A pale horse, lavish saddle, milk and honey. Dilapidated stone-dwellings, caked amber cement-mud, stray chickens and a skinny white goat tethered to a skeletal fence post. An old wooden bucket with bullet hole in it, an ocean of curious chocolate eyes,  I wanna ride past the lonesome cactus, the silhouette of dying, how it fades into the horizon, the pallid haze at dusk, the somber glint of light flashing from a silver medallion, the decayed steeple of a ancient church, an ugly yellow whorehouse, the prostitutes look like dolled up scare-crows with badly painted features, one grease-stained belly about to pop with the demon seed of a gunslinger, a flat tortilla in a metal pan, the rotten stables and intrinsic poverty of intricate Aztec abodes, my laconic slope, loving trigger, the red color around you, shivers of the graves I've dug, the whispers and funerals of sorrow, light beard and gritty Stetson-Bat Masterson cowboy hat, the heavily dotted pebbles in the sand, the covered brown faces shying away and parting like the sadness of the sea.

you too have choler

Sick of this plastic bag in this fuckin' dank orchard of onyx decay, the callous worms and perfumed maggots swimming through my gutted canals. People, the living, breathing blots of toxic orchids, the heart-shaped faces of owls.

Lonely, you're all like swept clovers on the porch, the rotten mulch and sodden wood planks, raw red feet and dirty toes. Cedar chips and caramel shavings, flowered petals and rotten blooms on the ceiling, a dull ache in my chest cavity, the reflecting echo of lilac and poisoned dandelions in the breeze. Black soil on the rough texture of blistered burlap, silver duct tape on my severed hands, sweltering droplets of pristine moisture, a river of florid marrow in this hefty garbage bag, yellow drawstring, outside an unspeakable-untouched beauty, deathless and blanched with milk thistle.

saw-grass

Among the flowered dirt roads, the blissful wrecks, the broken windshields and metallic tunnels, miles of wire and copper cables. A sandy dashboard fissure, tablets for a headache, gray skin clouds on an operating table. Distraught coins on the floorboard, blemished gasoline and camouflaged mantis, they look like they are still praying to God, bad posture, bent and dead.

The sodden mulch gardens bloated from the petroleum-rain, the untroubled engine cows, straying, nameless orchids in a black ballet of pallid art. Wet bark chips and cedar shavings, the headlight-lizards shrink from the sight of everyone. Splintered limbs and door-frames lay like barbaric amputations, the bitter-ink trees and taciturn pasture, a skeletal farmer building a fence, wooden heart in a bucket, liquor-holes in the gut.