by Joe Velarde
Granials of rock, splintered
crumbles between his back teeth pop, grind
down the sand,
surfed into his mouth like wind waves, blasting
his face, their particle apertures.
These rocks have moved from city to city,
carrying the dead soils of broken landscapes, dead plains
of woken souls buried beneath the dirt lakes, cracked earth like old skin on worn desert faces.
All of it unearthed when the wind kicks up, again.
"Look at this one," she said.
Stumbling over a perfect square marking the remains of a smokestack homage.
Thick bushels of golden grass surrounds the dead paths of telegram tales telling coin stories of coal blast treasure, deep inside the Franklin Valley.
Marred in the field of paintless aluminum
beer cans, erased by the light of an empty El Paso sun,
crow the throats of the commonfolk, corked
tightly inside their collapsed coffins,
their submerged sand sarcophagus.
Underneath her feet, the hands that weep
the surface, she blinks
away the fallen sand from her eye.
"Gonzalez, but look! These flowers are plastic," she said.
The company remains intact,
the dawn of the large cylindrical shadow casts
the giant lie of a red and white paint top.
It covers the light to discourage the dead from going back into the factory,
punching in their beaten timeclock to keep the cogs running.
"What does that have to do with anything," he said.
Covering the tracks of his toes pointing, brushing the sand lightly over the dirt's scar.
The sun burst blankets their eyes for a second
when the ray sweeps past the towered smokestack.
The wind softens her falling bangs over her lips while she moves closer to the steel plumbing crucifix.
Her fingers rested gently on the cool rod,
sunken into the shade.
Her cheeks burned of frost while
the wind carried the sail of forgotten memories, piled 3 feet from her soles, into the empty blue of the Chihuahua sky,
the black plains of the soiled land.
Granials of rock, splintered
crumbles between his back teeth pop, grind
down the sand,
surfed into his mouth like wind waves, blasting
his face, their particle apertures.
These rocks have moved from city to city,
carrying the dead soils of broken landscapes, dead plains
of woken souls buried beneath the dirt lakes, cracked earth like old skin on worn desert faces.
All of it unearthed when the wind kicks up, again.
"Look at this one," she said.
Stumbling over a perfect square marking the remains of a smokestack homage.
Thick bushels of golden grass surrounds the dead paths of telegram tales telling coin stories of coal blast treasure, deep inside the Franklin Valley.
Marred in the field of paintless aluminum
beer cans, erased by the light of an empty El Paso sun,
crow the throats of the commonfolk, corked
tightly inside their collapsed coffins,
their submerged sand sarcophagus.
Underneath her feet, the hands that weep
the surface, she blinks
away the fallen sand from her eye.
"Gonzalez, but look! These flowers are plastic," she said.
The company remains intact,
the dawn of the large cylindrical shadow casts
the giant lie of a red and white paint top.
It covers the light to discourage the dead from going back into the factory,
punching in their beaten timeclock to keep the cogs running.
"What does that have to do with anything," he said.
Covering the tracks of his toes pointing, brushing the sand lightly over the dirt's scar.
The sun burst blankets their eyes for a second
when the ray sweeps past the towered smokestack.
The wind softens her falling bangs over her lips while she moves closer to the steel plumbing crucifix.
Her fingers rested gently on the cool rod,
sunken into the shade.
Her cheeks burned of frost while
the wind carried the sail of forgotten memories, piled 3 feet from her soles, into the empty blue of the Chihuahua sky,
the black plains of the soiled land.
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