dead jackrabbit

… and in those deserts, those dunes
lie the children of those dunes.
the only time anyone is out there
is when they’re looking for something.
there’s a wholeness to the sadness;
not this schizophrenic pursuit of happiness.
the neanderthal dream,
water coming to you,
food coming to you,
sex coming to you,
it coming to you.
don’t wake up from the dream;
someone has to bring it all:
i brought it
i bought it
i fought it
now I have an account.
who are we?
that we think even that we think?
those dunes think,
contemplative thoughts
without subjective lenses
values and time – mere accounting
who counts the grains of sand?
wave after wave
the heat obscures,
but you see everything
from the creation to the destruction
each grain of sand.
The sadness feels whole,
there, in the desert,
where I worry I left my soul…