‘Square Peg Ranch’ by G.P. DeSalvo

Tunnel of Rove
‘Tunnel of Rove’ by G.P. DeSalvo

The wind has the word today as we walked past holes made from digging up old souls.  We were afraid of our future footprints winding through the prairie brush.  Mid-August cicadas in a jumble with rattlers somewhere in the distance.  The verdant mountains lay before us like lush feminine bodies rolling softly, reclining restful.  The green smell of sage: the blooming lupines (pronounced loop-ins by those in the know).  The dust is listening.  Walking gingerly, taking time, attenuated to rattlers again.

I pee al fresco… so do the locals.  They pee a lot because they drink a lot, and they’re not going to stop.

Up ahead are signs of what they call charismatic megafauna.

We’re staying at The Square Peg Ranch.

Bad Rock, Columbia Falls, greenhouses.  Cowboys with huge belt buckles which are nothing more than tombstones for dead cocks.  Hungry Horse, Crooked Tree.  She said earnestly, “Some people feel that they have to live the myth of the west.”  We walked on through more sage brush.  The air smelled fake, it smelled so good.  “I do too, to some degree.  Only my myth of the west is different.”

We walk further into the scrub and clouds of gnats landing in my eyes.  Bears stand in warning.  A family of them.  Mother bear looks at us, saying so much with her eyes.  I can talk with my eyes too.

I watch the bear.  I watch her as she walks ahead of me, unafraid: the iron womb in the ore of woman.  Much like the person I’m with.  Exactly like the person I’m with.

Tempt, taste…..

sometimes it’s all I can do to handle my own body…

I feel a creeping bloat unhinge my soft center which threatens to become my totality.

At times there is invisibility falling across me,

wiping me out of

my fumigated surroundings.

Later, when the danger passes, but the blood still flowing, I give water to her dog and stay quiet.  I need her smallness within my smallness within the smallness of this cabinworld, her milky voice like opaque bubbles in liquid space.  Her lips ejaculate molasses sound into my ears and infuse my mind with dew.  I rarely think straight anyway.

Inside this humid swampskin, deep under the thickened atmosphere and rubbery flesh, is a crystal mausoleum flooded with the clear stickiness and pungency of melted candy.

I can be your camel in a dry bright room.  You will love me as a pet.

I would be your drinking fountain- sweet lemonade for you and your other friends.

We can share an apple and a beer… one in each end of you… and I’d kiss your cloven hoof then you’d make me a sandwich.

I’d wash your doggie and you’d show me your new toy.

The light would be shining on us: shining in the world we made.

In that clean, blazing room, I’d lick your wounds, introduce you to my scars, then we’d make a pact with whisky and blood and smoke some spiked cigars.

The prayers we’d say for each other would cure the rest of the world.

I’m kneeling, I’m bowing, I’m rising in the rays of the sun.

We’re having a banquet in this clean heaven.  A table, heavy with food, sits between us.  The warm feeling grows until it’s all we can be- the light shines.  A hand reaches for mine.  I am open.  You can see into me.

I’m a pearled bead on your tongue, the elixir of life, a smoky essence mingled.

Reach inside me.

Dip your fingers in this sugary bog;

I know you’ll be gone soon.

 

Visit G.P. DeSalvo’s blog

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