creosote, horrible pang, Las Vegas, my gristle, poem, Poetry, sage, self-portrait, sonnet, unfit
Ask me. I will. Where I used to dwell I’d smell
the ghost of the red desert stirring, sensed
it wake at dawn. Creosote, sage, the swell
of black palm fronds flinging themselves against
a sky neon green, warm as bath water.
I will. I had the loneliness that sang,
too. It gave me songs but not one lover.
Songs of dust and rust, that horrible pang
of loss that left me sick. I still smell it.
In my sweat and sperm, my gristle. I’ll share
it, if you ask. Songs of blank bricks, Vegas
heat and heartache. I’ll sing of dawns unfit
for these dull days; when even rage is prayer
and we burn together, full of malice.