American Observations

American Observations As I walk into the desert. This place with no god but the rock and sand, no law but those of nature with their brutal indifference. Time moves slowly in this desert. The mark of man in the end returns to that rock and sand in which it was born from. The Truck Stop where I find myself is the oasis of oil and metal. Faceless men move around in the shade that there is. Myself the only figure in the burning sun. The Rodeo is over and Cowboys are back in the mythology that is written. Sunsets and horses at last can breath again as lovers escape to the trees and a child displays his armaments for worship to the dying sun. I return to the city where the angels now fear to tread. Where the sea and desert try to remove this trash pile. The cry of the Coyote fills the night, tells us that our mark is a temporary, that in time this city will be no more. The Coyote is waiting in this darkness, bidding it's time. For we will for sure unmake all with have made. It is these moments of solitude in the desert of man and of Gods and Monsters (Could, would a God make such a place as a desert) where I see mans mark, the writing that is the telephone cable, the water tower and paved road. Where I wonder alone. The silence of the desert and sounds of the city are both the same to the lonesome, they remind me that truly we are alone, truly I am alone here, now.