The Desert is Great for Peyote in April, 1994

Good men are hard to find:

unobtrusive, shadowed by

the hard men who are good,

the ones far easier to spot.

Damming their emotional

spigot, transcending by

societal decree: how can

you get your rocks off anymore?

Living is so rule-governed, so

scripted, so my-guardian-did-this-so-

I-will-too-ed; writing acts as

fire patrol that clears way this dead wood.

In moments of pure folly,

the voice in my head whispers that

"even the burns are controlled, on

the page."

In writing to release,

resolving to relive flesh

wounds (and absolve the makers)

I realize I've cut my own, jived,

and said things about clothing and

owning that were, at best, untruths:

just the kind of things that get men laid.

CarHouseDreamsFears and, for now, Drugs.

Venomous whispers all,

a spider, seeped in societal ill,

sold on TV, I want these things

only as barter -

an evening of words for a night

of hard fucking.

I offer no recompense - for you do it too -

nor is quarter expected from you

and yours. The schism in me is the

schism in you. Let's unite these

divergencies, strap desire to our

hearts and loins, call it Will,

and walk - not as

Saturday night hooligans, not as

renegades (for all is one), not as people

wuthout places,

(for the all the world is a playground of

magic), certainly not as united,

but as visceral incarnations of

our selves.

Cracks spread like pox,

the world undulates,

and Apollo blazes across a

sultry sky, perfect for

tonight my chingadera -

Round Two.