Dirt pours from the canteen,
we’re lost on this desert road,
50 miles away from home.
The cacti needled and warm.
We only meant to go for a hike.
The stars are spiked,
and falling all around,
the universe is our crown.
And you are my queen.
You didn’t know I’d capture Machu Pichu.
You didn’t know I’d assassinate Cortez,
then call you three sheets to the wind,
after bowling that Wednesday night.
They oughtta make a law
outlawing whistling in public.
They oughtta throw in prison
this soporific popinjay.
The guitar string breaks,
this quivering heart aches.
The land under our feet moves,
this man has nothing left to prove.
The ghost may throw a dresser at me
but I’ll dodge it and keep singing,
every single thing she does
makes me feel like screaming
her name and blazon it in the clouds
a subversive skywriting
that only she and I can read
as we lay supine in bed
in a room without a roof.
If I really spoke honestly,
I’d perseverate this poem.
You’d call my doctor and
straight-jacket me in a padded room,
but then I’d break out and assassinate Cortez again.
But only if I was speaking honestly.
My phone buzzes with a text,
my computer hums,
my watch’s hands flip me off,
Trains pull into the station,
well coiffed women disembark,
men with briefcases race for connections.
We are the kaleidoscope’s magic rocks.
50 miles from home.
The road envelops us.
Cacti strangle the sky.
The desert hides mysteries.
I mumble oaths and secrets.
The Earth gyrates as the galaxies hibernate.
I stumble but call it dancing.
The Heavens open up and swallow us both.
100 years go by in an instant,
the instant our lips touch.
I like songs about Love and movies about death.
I like finding treasures I forgot were there.
I close my eyes and find myself in the house of nod.
I wake up and find a bird on the windowsill cooing.
I watch you twirl around in your softly swaying skirt,
and wonder if it is possible that I am still dreaming.
And if I am dreaming, then please,
even if the house is on fire
and Cortez is at the door with revenge on his mind,
please don’t wake me.
Fiction can’t hold up to the sound of your name on my lips.