Gathering thoughts while perched on a basalt hill staring westward toward two obsidian mountains, face pummeled by the West Wind. But there are no thoughts. I’m nearly brain dead, neurons flat-lined, straight as those electric wires stretched taut above sage and juniper.
Please. No more miles, no more coffee, no more questions, no more. I’m wrung dry, bladder squeezing the last salvageable water from amber piss, vocal chords raw, tight as those damned wires that don’t belong.
I don’t belong. Over time I could belong, but there isn’t much time left either. So I will belong when Wind has blown my ashes over gray sand and fiery obsidian. When they have sifted downward, been gathered in. Effortlessly.
Yawn. Scattering Wind dries my mouth, pink cavity of words formed nonstop for three days. There is so little spit left. A sip of warm beer moistens the sticky lining, bursting bubbles sliding backward, downward, depleted brain finally registering juniper branch waving erratically, registering Mountain Bluebird’s plaintive call, registering Raven’s dusky oars rowing upstream, registering bluebird sky and gray bones of sagebrush strewn, registering my bones sitting, not yet strewn.
Wind pushes against my bones, falls back, pushes again, patternless, meaningless, only me, alone, pushing, falling back.
If you cut me, I will not bleed snakes and lizards. I will bleed only blood, not flowing, but dripping onto parched ground, dripping because there is so little blood left. Because I have been bled nearly dry, not by you, but for you. A transfusion. Given.
Take my blood with you when you go, and maybe a handful of stained and moistened earth. Then someday you might dream and awaken full of fierce joy because you were dreaming of gopher snakes and collared lizards, green tea sage and black glass rocks, raven croak and eagle scream, the timeless Wind, the blowing dust.