When god destroyed Sodom and Gomora

he told a handful of folks not to look back, lest they turn to a sculpture of salt.

I imagine the scene from Independence Day,

except these guys were probably buried waist deep in Sodomy (presumably)

and free love.

It's Ichtur, the blood of the human gods.

I have the taste of Classic Coca Cola littered on my lips. Distant.

I imagine their secret formula locked away, from mortal eyes, in a vault.

But where are they now?

I am alone and thirsty, under the heat of the desert.

 

Side by side and arms length apart they stand beheaded by the guillotine of time; Palm trees

Once the center piece of a buried desert Oasis, back when I guess people sang their mantra

"Writers on the storm." We were all bone set on breaking through

our ancestors locked doors.

Ancestor worship through the inevitable and sexy iconoclasm.

We chew the meat and spit the bones out.

Lay the palms on Sunday, and kill the guy we laid them out for on thursday.

The son is born and the dad starts dying.

 

As I crash my car head on in the oncoming lane, a little bit of my father dies. He fears me taking his throne,

so he sends me away on the city bus to community college.

 

Joshua Trees don't have these problems. In hours under the sun, only, I will grow faint and wither too.

To my right, the dry Santa Anita winds whisper through.

These trees stand still like monks, castrated, with their hands to heaven. Living on past me and my gatorade thirst

My skin slips wet with salt