by E. Michael Desilets

The Birdman of Burbank tinkered
with his antique tin toys in the garage,
nudging a bit of orange crud off the beak
of a clockwork parakeet
with an Evapo – Rust – soaked cotton swab.

The Cycling Duck and the Pecking Hen
looked perfect now, preening on the hood
of the Buick Skylark.  The Rocking Rooster
might be tomorrow’s main event.

Connie was out once again, watching
Deadline at Dawn on a distant drive – in screen,
her pal Tina already asleep in the passenger seat,
the Italian sausage sub going cold in her hand.

In a half – hour or so he’d stroll to Bella Vista,
slide into the booth by the Great Zucchini
fortune telling machine and order rigatoni arrabiata.
No red wine tonight.  The migraines
would soon be back.

by E. Michael Desilets

There were weekends at the Happy Swallow
when gap – toothed women took nothing from him
but his pay envelope and a few
whiskey – primed memories of his years
as a Penn Central brakeman.

He’d wave his imaginary lantern at them
or sometimes his bar stool
and recite raspy snatches of “Railroad Bill”
or “The Wreck of the Old 97.”
He could imitate a train whistle perfectly
(a signal that “The Wabash Cannonball” was on the way)
if he took out his dentures.

In time he drank himself
into the corner booth by the men’s room
and pretty much disappeared except
for the blue bandanna and the overalls
and the last few notes of “The Midnight Special.”

by Andrea L. Watson

Now this is what you shall do —

Take the land each way
you dream a lover   earth skin
seamless against his found beauty

No map for this country called flame
sky   the supple throat of fire   tasting
amethyst   bittersweet   cerulean

Ride some road to that place with no name
past ripe – veined acequias pierced by twilight
heat blood in rock soil pulsing and blazed

Six miles to the belly of moonrise
where mesas pleasured by alamillos and sage
ache beneath horizon’s arched back

Touch loins with smoke and silver to hold
the wanted stars   unlatch the wilding
gate to the burning of the world

Nowhere but dusk   born in clay and tinder
nothing but this   night – blooming
bed of luminous surrender.

Lie down with the land   let it break you —