Resting along the mantle of the Great West: a sideburned, burly prince of the dead—hands big and dry as cow hide—walks alongside his solemn horse. Her hooves burn on the relentless sand, her fly-smothered eyes ejecting warm tears onto the now soulless earth. The last drops of life that will fall upon this golden Vatican. The days run long now with this restless sun. Their skin is frustrated, sore and sweltering like a blister getting rug burned. The horse looks to the sky for salvation and sees nothing but suffocating blue. A vast, boring scene: sandy knolls and lousy shades of orange. Their saliva turns static. Peyote calls: a bitter whisper humming in his blood. He thinks he hears songs of the Mojave. Cocoon rattles and basket drums. Tomahawk in a knapsack. His eyes, so muted their blue irises appear grey, see warmth radiating, breathing. The rocks sing a tender song. The horse sways. Her hide’s gone sour, releasing an unnatural sweetness. She prays for her mother, for a taste of water. He prays for his banjo, for a deep long sleep. The caves of their nostrils are coated in a mean dust. A crusty mixture of snot and powdered bones. He hums sermons under his hot breath and sees their flowing color dance upon the sky. The blank scene inverts itself into a beautiful living thing, each gradient, each speck of brush, so intriguing. He forces himself to continue despite his raw state and lingering eye, which glazes over the flowing floor beneath him. The horse exhaustedly trudges alongside her cowboy, unable to see anything but a hot death. The sole of his boot is beginning to give out. He might need to crawl to the preacher. Praying to the old desert gods, he stares down the hollow barrel of his dry canteen and looks up to see the Reaper coming with his scythe and lasso. Coming to meet them both in this empty plain.
▇▇▇▇ the ▇▇▇ Great ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇
▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ horse. Her hooves ▇▇ relentless. ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ ejecting
▇▇▇▇ a ▇▇ soulless earth ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ upon this golden ▇▇▇▇▇ day, run
long ▇▇▇▇ restless ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇
▇▇▇▇▇▇ sky, ▇▇ salvation ▇▇ sees nothing ▇▇▇▇ saliva, ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇
▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ bitter ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇
▇▇ songs of ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇
▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇
▇▇▇ sour ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇
▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ nostrils ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ and ▇▇
powdered bones. ▇▇▇▇▇▇ hot breath ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ dances upon the sky. ▇▇
▇▇▇▇ sermons ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇
▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ need ▇▇ the preacher. He prays ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇
▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ to ▇▇▇ the Reaper ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ and lassos ▇▇
▇▇▇▇▇▇ this empty plain.▲▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇
