I Don't Know Anyone

I stand haunted
at the edge of liquid night
askew in stance
leaning out towards the open desert
upon a mound of dirt
in my backyard
staring forward
into a dry sea bed of despair
and I don't know anyone.

I search the ground for movement
a child of night and sand
you learn to eyeball creepy crawlies
and to listen for
those things that go bump in the night
my companions are shadows
and
my heart is strange
because I don't know anyone.

This has been the longest walk
down cactus hallways turning dirt bike tricks
the arid night is a dusty blow dryer
hot air shaking the hand of emptiness
inside a poisoned fear
holding a bone from an iguana's rib-cage
standing in the scorpion eclipse
and I don't know anyone.

Some day I will walk
out past the aching creosote
down through the jack rabbit skulls
that line these shallow streets like open graves
way over and beyond
the bloody threshold of tarantula fangs
the manic howls of coyotes murdering in packs
under the murky waters of the Oasis mirage
down to where the big ole' western sky
finally sinks into the ground
and here will be
a graffitied rocket ship with no fuel
an alien broom handle
ready to sweep me away
because I don't know anyone.

Hello, my name is
Shawn of the Mojave
I'm pleased to make your acquaintance . . .

because I don't know anyone.