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  • Tyler Bauer

dirtbag daydream

There’s a zoomed in world that can only be explored tip toeing on top of pebbles,

high above the purple and pink of a desert painted sky,

while lassoed into this crazy endorphin ride by someone just as sane as high

standing in these places of perverse vertical topography

we are squeezed into the black ink of the thinnest map lines,

set on solving wind-swept puzzles of stone phenomena

where a perfume needs bottled of the sage and juniper roasting in the sand,

blown through the fingers of my salted sweaty hands after

being dipped in a concoction of calcium carbonate and faith

with it though comes the momentary conviction,

that my cracked and blackened toes formed to talons by Italian rubber

will stick like sweet mesquite honey to a pane of stained glass

believing in polychrome lobes of aircraft grade aluminum, sewed string, and hope

while my tendons clutch at fused specks of salmon-colored sediments

like the joints of rigor mortis in the cold fingers of a corpse

my lungs filled with the dyed red dust that floats in the dry desert air

grasping at generations of slick guano stains from bats and pack rats

that roost in the back of the cracks on this cliff, hidden in the confines of a magnified world


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