The Wind

The other day those hot Santa Anas’ blew from the creosote stained desert floors mixed with the pungent stench that rises from the rock strewn hills and crappy cities that sprouted up out there. Palmdale and Lancaster and god knows where else. They reminded me of you. You rose from the desert floor like a pyre of eternal optimism- a bright blue flame engulfing entire city blocks, holy vacant lots of sand rock and creosote.

And then you rode out of town on a silver mustang. I remember the belching and smoke curled sky as you left. And I didnt. I stayed, licking my wounds, wondering if the skies would ever open up again and cry. Cry for me, for all of us who are stuck, cemented, stained in the middle of fucking nowhere. Stained with the grey whiplash plaster coated anguish that can only be felt by those who grew up around here. Or there. Or somewhere like here or there.