Desert Dogs

[New Mexico]

In the Black Range

standing stoned on some high up rock,

still, sucking air like a drum--

ba ba ba...ba ba...ba...ba...ba...ba

how the sky fights

to reclaim equilibrium

between it, and me, all things a’round.

Makes sense,

es el Sierra Diablo,

I’m high high up, so there’s less air to share—

but then why does every breath around sound like song?

Deep deep breathes. Empty windy ether

swelling, howling through three colors, again: 

green, brown and one-hundred-different-skies. In this

enchanted land

of contention— there is no middle ground.

You know or you don’t, there’s a dog that feeds our lungs—

cut of hard lines 

streaming black from the horizon,

playing tricks;

shifting slabs of earth form 

it, this wild dog, staring blankly at

a big yellow ball...burning... as it sails 

over, over, over

his back— 

so black. 

She houses this desert space, filled with everything

from me to 

the far-off bird nested high up in

a Texaco sign, singing

poo-poo-tweet, poo-tweet, tweet tweet poo-tweet!

between it, and me, all things a’round.

______

I am still on this mountain, called its name 

from the people who lived in its cliffs,

had a carnal bowl for every meal, same for death:

I saw one once. 

Two dogs in trapped carbon

chasing tails for all time,

like sun and shade sprawled in symmetry

around each certain ring, 

what a dance! 

I want to hear that song!

When these people died

others laid bowls 

to their faces—before, put the hole in the bottom,

in the threshold to infinity (we end empty vessels).

So may my last sounds be that of breaking,

something precious, 

like a bird or

the dog who governs this place.