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 rictus,

gawks from the granite taffy-machine of time.

 

no mercy from young heatstroke.

this valley in the sky

orbits a bright black hole reeling with vultures.

torpid chameleons disguised as dunes

shuffle a stash of stone tablets over my leathery feet,

and they maunder:

 

“where are the laws? 

where are the ezekiels and daniels?

where are the lamentations

and ecclesiastes?”

 

 lost.  irreparable.

even sidewinders lose purchase in this cauldron,

simmery bubbles of sunset, ladles of shadow,

roiling in illimitable heat, 

a recipe of long sacrificed creatures,

jambalaya of sustenance and hunger, god and devil,

all answers, knowledge and code

gone to broth.

 

 =========================

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.