Hinterlands

My ancestors were not diligent

and so they lived beside the fort

that's neither on the maps of Heaven,

Nor of Hell.

In these lands, there is no difference

between a star and thrown car keys.

Chicken nuggets hatch from the eggs of eagles.

I grow dirty while bathing in bottled water.

My bed comforter is a wet parking lot,

I wrap myself up in.

If I eat in the morning, there's nothing left in the evening

My dish of grass and cigarette butts topped with expired coupons.

Stir all I like; I never swallow it down.

All the while, my rabbit's foot runs about

from Las Cruces to West Memphis

searching for flawless luck.

The more one cries, the more one prospers . . .

O' ancestral demon, may my lamentation become verbal sorcery.