New Mexico


I can see the stars again,
and I’m blank, reverent,
whatever,
small,
so goddamn small

under the big lights,
I’m a ghost,

and the neon bar signs
don’t do much
to distract,
when you’re already
hot and drunk,

but there’s no fix,
I can’t help missing you

every goddamn minute,
every goddamn day,

and New Mexico girls,
they aren’t the same,

but I’m sure,
if I let ‘em,
they’d break my heart, too

they’d take me in to
their pueblos,
their adobe houses,
their gaudy bedrooms,

lay me down under that
sienna sky,

and they’d break me,

they’d break me
with their posh galleries
bleeding art no one has seen
and no one will,

and they’d break me
with their kitsch
bookstores and western
wearhouses, their cowpoke
bars and authentic
restaurants,

and they’d cook me
under the sun,
and I’d look weathered,
and I’d feel weathered,

I would feel the sierra-comfort,
the emptiness of the desert
in my stomach,

but you know me,
every goddamn bit of me,

I ain’t much for sticking around

lord knows
I’d end up
in one of those galleries
in one of those picture frames,
and no one would ever see me again,

but you know me,
every goddamn bit of me,

I ain’t much for sticking around