22:11 Fasting From Disaster
The sun beats hot
on a scrotum called El Paso
A dry pool of diseased
collections
left overs from fragrant brides
Greyhound buses
and British luggage
caught in the Southern draft.
Flat empty air
circles a TV tube
smashed with disparity
that sits politely on the curb
undisturbed in the wind
that blows with a low hum
past an alien visitor
who sits as well
white as the canvas
of a confused painter.
Arid cemetaries
cake silver bones
that separate from fertile flesh
and rot quietly
against the crumbling soil
of a corpse set in
for a long winters' heat.
Its disoriented flanges
stretch for water
at the edge of the map
where my finger traces
a blue line called '10'.
Once searching for a soul
I ran from coast to coast
my spine stretched along
interstate ten
only to end
in a sweaty corner of Texas
where British luggage
and boney fingers
dig whole handedly
into the heat of disaster.
