Poem: Late Hike

 

Late Hike

 

ants of sweat trek down my wrists.

cars flee quickly by, the pursuits of shiny colors.

a brushfire-sooted foothill, devonian of fang,

gawks from the granite taffy-machine of time.

 

no mercy from young heatstroke.

this valley in the sky

orbits a bright black hole of reeling vultures.

dunes disguised as chamelones disguised as dunes

shuffle a torpid stash of stone tablets over my leathery feet

and wonder:

 

“where are the 'begets' and the laws? 

where are the ezekiels and daniels?

where are the lamentations

and ecclesiastes?”

 

 even sidewinders get lost in this cauldron,

these simmery bubbles of sunset and their 

ladles of shadow boiling in illimitable heat.

this recipe of long sacrificed creatures.

god and the devil, all sustentance, knowledge and code,

gone to broth.

 

 =========================

9/7/25.. god this poem is ugly

4/26 ... "broth" replaces "motes"

4/22 ... more mods, added "granite" ... "motes" replaces "specks" ... "wrists" replaces "flesh" ... more mods mods mods

4/21 ... lots of edits hour after posting, should've waited...  shame

Took lots of hikes in my 20s and 30s, many outside of the San Fernando Valley.  Santa Susannas.  Santa Monicas.  San Gabriels.  Verdugos.  Even a simple canyon annihlates the urban.  Such as Tujunga.  Sometimes the trail died and I relied on a compass, or my familiarity with the land--and its familiarity with me.