29 Palms

The hiss of a last drag cigarette.
On our backs
on an old black and tan
Navajo saddle blanket
that had hung that morning
on my childhood bedroom wall,
we are naked, with wine:
a cheap chardonnay
that was bought for us
by my mother,
we watch the Persieds fall.
Life in this universe
is the damnable humming
electricity of the horsefly
and the soft
snap
of the bat
that eats it.
Like Flamenco stomps
and the whip
of the tied tassel
on the spun shawl.
And as Flamenco:
these yearning eyes
glaring into the unseen
and our future story told
in flames.
We were
right here.
We came
so close.
We are
a dream.
Oh, me. Still Siddhartha.
From this
some of me
has never awakened.