Chaco Canyon
Its tuesday, sunup
and the sky is spitting snow
petulantly.
Pueblo Bonito, at first
approach made me cry,
absurdly
between the ghosts and graves
and stones and ravens.
I fled.
And the greasewood marshalls
giggled, and mocked.
But such a place where even
the canyon walls have wings?
I returned.
Inching my way, hesitantly,
through footfalls and boulders
ravished and ravishing,
and here even I hear ocean.
The ravens perch on
one half forgotten windowsill
and canyon wrens rush about
with too much to do.
Both seem to peer across at
me, wondering
If I am the next act.
"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night, who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz..."
About Me
- Me, I'm holding out hope for a zombie attack
- “What are you, life? A silent theater of Chinese shadows, a chain of dreams, a charlatan’s store? Or a gift of unrequited love---that’s all that is intended for me? What about happiness? Ingrate, you’re alive, you weep love strive fall and that’s not enough? What?...Not enough? Oh, is that so? There isn’t anything else.”--Tatyana Tolstaya
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