Is it wise to ask for information or advice from a felon convicted of fraud, a probable sex-offender, a liar, a thief, a traitor?
By definition, The Orange Rhino has authority, but is it wise to question him when the answer is likely to be, at best, inaccurate or, at worst, an outright lie?
Are the questions we want answered better directed toward the people who voted for him?
Father sun sinks. Sky darkens then burns and Coyote howls.
Some are called to the desert. Inspired and energized by the death, the dry, the sparse interspersed with the brilliance and urgency of life.
Coyotes, owls, lizards and snakes glide, prowl, creep and crawl past cactus blossoms colorful as drag queens.
Crypto-organisms cover the desert floor. Bacteria, fungi, algae and mosses knit a fibrous net that resists wind, forming a protective crust over the tunnels and burrows, the cool, dark places that desert dwellers call home.
Some are called to the desert.
Others are not suited for it they see only the emptiness, the bare cruelty of nature, although forests and coastlines are no less cruel. They need the embrace of the wet and the green.
In the desert they feel a dread, anxiety that approaches panic. Not aversion, but angst, a sort of existential allergy.
Some are called to the desert, to witness orange sunsets, disappearing behind distant hills, as blistering heat is replaced by the chill.
Secret words are everywhere on every raindrop, in every cell, on every fiber and every star.
In the labyrinthine library of incomprehensible books,
every line, every word written, is an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness— spoiling the virgin purity of the void.
Written words are self-quickening. Racing into the abyss without full understanding. they stew and boil and stink.
The void gags and regurgitates them with breath of fire. They burn silently leaving behind only ash. Silence is teeming, nothingness abounds words are insignificant.
So here I am, pencil in hand, lying in darkness, letting the days forget me.
Poetry allows for layers of meaning, neither sentimental nor inscrutable.
It encourages readiness: to be surprised, to develop introspection, to become aesthetically moved by images, sounds, words, and gestures— images alive and real, yet not literal.
It creates another world through metaphor, symbols gaining potency.
Poetry allows the known and the unknown to coexist.
Desert Dweller 