Poem: Late Hike

 

Late Hike

 

ants of sweat plod over my wrists.

cars flee by in pursuit of shiny colors.

a foothill, brushfire-burnished,

gawks from the granite-soot taffy-machine of time.

 

no mercy from young heatstroke.

the valley i walk 

orbits a bright black hole of vultures.

dust--disguised as lizards disguised as dust-- 

shuffles stones over my leathery feet.

could these stones be stone tablets 

whose hidden, cryptic etchings ask:

 

“where are the laws and the 'begets'? 

where are the ezekiels and the daniels?

where are the lamentations

and the ecclesiastes?”

 

 even sidewinders must get lost in this cauldron,

amid such simmery bubbles of sunset,

intoxicated by ladles of shadow 

full of bottomless heat.

surely this place 

is some recipe of long-sacrificed creatures.

god and the devil, 

sustentance, knowledge and code,

all gone to broth.

 

 =========================

5/26 ... more eds

10/25/25.. keep trying.. 

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.