June 15 by The Running Son
ɵut fɾom the sǻges
It’s true. I crawled out of the desert,
and it’s true I saw things there.
Care for skin, and water, kept
me supple, though. Fair weather friends
and flood troubles did help me
double out of there, a flight
from the rubble of wilder darings:
forty days of abdicating care
and losing juice to the dry air.
Bare me. My soft skin proves to you
the holes I’ve homed in
and the mystics I’ve known,
and de-boned. I’ve sinned to the marrow
then sipped it, all 62 percent humidity
dripping down me running
down our thighs. Perspire with me.
Tonight, at the edge of this
great mesa, may we breathe us–
wet salt-musk dripping off lips,
lubricating the chafing grit that
deserts leave tired sages with.
by Jim Aldrich
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.