Psalm to Jupiter

Jupiter the wrecking ball
swinging above the vineyards of Ukiah,
over the mist in the hops fields and the marijuana gardens -
wheeling between the carrion birds and cold Orion
and over the wrecking balls we are all driving
and over our skulls and the skulls of infants -
the great pendulum god with the face of Kali
unwinding its gravitational chain
far over the uncrushed skull of a leaping rabbit.

Dragons without, dragons within.

We saw him after a half hour walk across the late autumn desert, sky threatening rain and twilight in the offing. No bag, no visible water, camo parka, camo pants, long black hair. How long had he been following? From where? Our car sat lonely and alone on the road's shoulder, somewhere behind. He hailed us with a raised hand, and fished from his jacket a ziplock of dried dull green leaves, a bright bic lighter. Poor english, poor spanish, howling wind and uncertain distance. A couple of attempts, then he turned to walk on through the prickly scrub, the bare pads of his feet trailing behind him.

Not long later - the sun fell behind the mountains, the full moon's glow muted by heavy cloud, chilled november rains. The landscape a monochrome in ever darker shades of navy. Hiking back in file, flashlights swinging, what appeared to be trail markers ahead always turned out to be stunted joshua trees, their motives cryptic, inscrutable.