Tuesday, September 10, 2013

Salt Flat Psychology

A whole generation toys with each other,
compulsive as cities full of co-dependent rosaries,
relationships as barren, brutal and tricky
as the hundred miles of salt flats I drove home alone,
laid out in detail, after intricate irritating detail,
a new-age catharsis of confession
shifting like pale opaque mountains,
levitating over a cushion of mirages,
wavering through a long-running
science fiction movie.

Time, I say, to strip away those layers of pretense,
fire those so-called counselors
slurping at the trough of urban loneliness,
tramp through that awful salty flat
where nothing hides, and try your best
to slip between that
slim, blue-gray filter between the footless hill
and a roofless sea of sand
salty as tears,
or blood.

Walk straight, with your eyes wide
open, your sense floating.

Nail reality onto your psyche.
Pour whatever else out of your parcel,

and on your way home, grow up.
Resolve to go out and make a life
worth the telling.

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