Fuel

Each fever runs its course:

white heat,
unquenchable,

unrivaled.
No quick healing here,

just an endless grind:

ground down

blunted

broken

hunted

haunted

and plenty of

obsession.

Cast into the desert,

stung and sweating,

searching for something

(to hold onto)

searching for someone

(with an answer)

but in response,

the dismal quartet of words:

It's not my job.

It's not my job.

No one can help you here.

So I watch the time

tick away,

each additional second

a further weight to bear.

Longing for escape

is only natural,

for the fever burns,

consumes

conflates

conflagrates

and contains no answers.

Today i am made of little pieces,

tied together with twine.

Fuel for the fire.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

55 - Silverware

Too many spoons.

What should he do?

Though he pondered it often,

he hadn't a clue.

Then a friend said,

"Go make a zoo.

Take that old silver

and make it like new!"

So that's what he did,

using forks and knives, too.

If you're near Big Bend park,

you can now buy a few.

Does your work of art contain exactly 55 word? Tell the G-Man!

Phobia

It’s just a little phobia,

paranoia

paradox

that we can love

and yet despise;

hold each other close

while miles apart.

And though I search

for something true,

true to life

true to you

(and me)

authenticity eludes my grasp

and I am left

with empty hands.

Should I try again

and risk contempt?

Oh, hide away the ego

and enlist common sense

to guard it,

lest we do more damage

than before.

Tiptoe quietly past.

Let sleeping dogs lie.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday.

Turning

Green days and sunshine

turn to Indian Summer,

and the small but telling signs

that winter comes.

Nothing in a bottle will save you.

Season's turning

strips us bare,

and truth's towering form

casts its shadow.

Dust to dust.

Youth is squeezed out

of mottled hands,

flesh goes slack.

The body yearns

to plop into a wicker chair,

fuss and  fury ended.

But the mind still feels

spring's caress

and, seeing youth

pass along a city street,

recalls an earlier season.

Fires die but sparks remain,

and I will eat of the apple

all the days of my life.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

55 - Terlingua Afternoon

They brought me here in the old pickup. Now they're hammering and calling to each other. At the other end of the patio, a man without shoes strums a guitar. Tourists wander around with cameras and sometimes go inside to buy a t-shirt. I just lie here, soaking up the sun.

Another day in Terlingua.

Dog lounging outside the Starlight Theater (now a restaurant) in Terlingua ghost town.

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Unplugged

We moderns stride about,

smug in certainty

and gizmos,

muttering paeans to our gods

via Bluetooth.

We live indulgent lives:

instant answers

instant love

beamed by satellites

and towers.

But still there remain

pockets of wildness.

Devoutly tapping

yields no magic here.

Only rocks will answer.

Note: Photo taken on recent visit to Big Bend National Park.

This is a Three Word Wednesday post.

55 - Jacal

He had only a shack

of ocotillo and mud

but he raised a large family

and was known as a stud.

With wives in two countries

and friends in three nations

old Señor Luna
had quite the relations.

And though he was poor,

never did something great,

this tough old Latino

lived to be 108!

Gilberto Luna had wives on both sides of the US-Mexico border and at least 11 children, possibly more. He raised many of them in this jacal in what is now Big Bend National Park. He died in 1947.

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