The low machine hum of the big, big city is entrenched in gaslight dawn.

The birds and the killers are mum, waiting for the razor light of god’s heart to percolate and breed as the handmade souls rise, wash and run.

And it was a hot day in the desert, a blowtorch sky was blowing up my eyes as I steered the ship down hot highway grace and peace, the vast and beautiful wound, an Irish pub in my lap, the steel wheels of a Santa Fe hulk grinding away to the east. A mystery and a fear twitching in my belly, a calm anxiety described only as sickness in my nerves.

We all have addictions in this shitstorm

I drove mine to the desert and wiped its crucifix clean

And it all came undone again

My legs heavy with the sweat and sand

Constructing a sundial and a time machine for the Swede

Near the apex of the Ink Pot porn shop

When the deer came through the brush in a rush

Followed by a pack of wild coyotes tripping on bloodthirst

I jumped down into the mud of the fleshy soft creek bed

Found that crown of thorns and spelled out someone’s name

Large enough for the spaceships to see

Those ancient alien gods shaking their yellow heads

At the world we’ve stained with sin and greed

Americans too fat to walk

While others shiver in a blanket of their own bones

And there’s no sympathy anymore for the broken

No desire but thy very own

The royal ice cream lady back from Haiti

And her eyes have changed

They burn with images and swirl

Now eclipsed by fucking REALITY TV and all the other brainless passions of my AMORIKA.

And then there was a dandelion

Sitting in white Tee on summer lawn

Watching the hot orange blossom take its final bow

Getting up, running to the tracks

Like a bullet, flying off

A new world calling

Like a hit of dreamtime opium

And a red, savage bar.