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Bails of hay like headstones
fields of alfalfa
Broken trees like dead fences
The air gets cooler
tighter
Dunes of clay mounting
flesh and blood
coagulated
dried lava flow
Stone face and erected
tiny temples crowning
ancient river beds
and drinking the dew
it squeezes from the 
sandy tongued clouds
masculine torsos with 
breasts milking children
greens
Quiet and subtle
aliens waiting
to die

Passing the Indians 
the horse's tail sways
nearly caressing the country road

The only moving snakes
I see are winding highways
cliffsides
And reservation pathways
All the rest are dead

 

Today Jim Morrison would have turned 69 years old, so I’m posting this one for a third time on his behalf. Happy Birthday Jim!

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