Under the hunter/still in the hood

Underneath the great hunter

The trains roll by, their horns cutting through the night, like the powerfully-dull whack of a machete

Across the street drug dealers …do their thing.

I hear dogs
whimpering in high pitched squeaks

like nettles stinging my ears
and seem so much like a scarecrow
standing in the yard

Leaning on my shovel, in awe of how many people will buy a pint of hard liquor before noon.

Dumbfounded by the regally blind, that constantly mob past

Unable to see the desert tobacco, for more than anything than a passing glance

The ephedra grows unruly as the nights and days merge

Conflicted within extremes that they will shed integrity

As their skin, leaving a crumpled mass in the skipping sand

Willing to do whatever is necessary

Surviving in this world for another day 

and I am among them
i am afflicted
survivalist,
landing like some windblown seed
from a jungle
exactly like this one
I am glad we have shared in this experience
because I have seen how orchids are as cactus
with innocence obliterated
on those balmy nights
where our flowers bloom
to the sounds of human chaos
offspring are of secondary importance
provided there's enough water
as we travel by night to conserve energy
our skin becoming leathery and worn
as we rub it upon the fabric of this realm
the smell of colitas
the distant crack of gunfire
somewhere in the distance the burros
run around under the stars and the coyotes try to eat them
occasionally you can hear of their victory
like whoop-whoop of some neighbor going to jail
under the flashing lights
the air pollution that lingers
like the ringing of the trains brakes splitting the air.
the hills rise like dark islands out of a never ending sea of lights
somewhere, it is all as it should be