Unconsciously her fangs 
as sharp as archetypes
cut deep during sleep, 

   ...then like a mother 
she spits us out.

There's endless sand
as far as the eye can see,
relentless sunlight
and an unquenchable thirst.

She ripples like a pond 
with succulent seduction.
Moist mirage. 

I drink air.

She dances like smoke
on a surreal wall
reflecting reality 
so brutally real.

There's a weapon, a whip
a hammer, a nail 
and a prophet nailed to a board.

A buddha bleeds in a dark alley
while a thief makes off with nothing.

Judgment is murder
and everyone's a king.

So be it,
   ...Holy One.

roaming about like a lost dog
in a desert
chewing on a rubber bone

where there's an oasis
that's a figment
of your wandering mind
that you call home.                                                                    © 1999 by David Bozzi