ME AND YOU IN CIENEGA

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The air is still, it doesn’t sting your face the way It usually would. Backs to the brick wall, we’re two gray lungs whistling small

tornadoes of remnant smoke over a crumbling city. “I’ve pissed on that land plenty of times”, she’d say. This August

the winnebago squeals black exhaust, out of the garage, flying off to anywhere but here. We would trade cordial moments on

the road, with the shriveled Goose Neck and nearly-death-throes hullaballoo of desert machines, sipping oil droplets out of dry

sand. Grotesque rigs with Iron head nods, calcified brittles wheezing in the winds like a nervous asthmatic. Then the sly evening

slip into Cienega Boulevard bars of the California locale. We’d become [one] soggy heap of liquored up skin, glued to bleak

motel beds, where something else might get wet. We’d vibrate to the beat of this

short lived passion and move on like bison, feral and heavy, we’d fade into memory.