Poem #5

The deafening quiet of the desert
Belies the humble, screeching nature of the red men
Searching, calling for the gods
The tall green arms

The tiny prickly footstools
Call out in an embrace of death
Begging them to join them in the forelife
The hungry blistering heat of the sun

Pushes them along
Their quest for the little buttons
The tiny, green patches
The gods inaccesible bounty
The gods speak

Listen to the voices hum
Listen to the crickets drum
The amazing swirl of the dangerous, blue sand
The torrent of gritty hurricanes

Fly like an eagle
Sway like the venison tree
Jump through time and space
The broken necks of fallen warriors
The broken necks of sweating bottles of fire
That hinder the growth of the indwelling pyre

The men of water
The ghosts made of white, pure cinnamon
Listenin'
And callin' out to the tweeting drums

The fire crcklin'
Breaking the bones laying on the ground
Fields of maize are hangin' up in the sky above
The spirits are all talkin' sayin'
What the fuck is that sound
The oil's raining into the underground
The capuchin's nephew can't wipe himself clean
Of the sticky clouds

The armadillos all over the weeds
Singin' haikus of secretive deeds
Done under the cover of the day's highest light
Tellin' where the infants hid all the bodies
Spinnin' all around
Playin' stringed instruments from beyond the stars
Men in crazy hats
All ridin' in cars

The portal is open for the centurion dead
The president's daughter sits naked in the red chair
The men are all howlin'
Singin'
Screamin'
Shriekin'
Find their camps
Kill them all