black jagged obsidian

avant-guard pink sandstone

spice this journey,

Huachuca skies salting away, ice blue,

beckoning the sun to pay up

those uncollected Mexican dues.

frontier mountain ranges

search past Oregon purple manzanitas

packed tightly amongst juniper canyons jazzed murals

calling out hypothetical names in delight,

offering all

lusty drinks of burnt orange sand.

and thirsty alligator oak branches

sway above outstretched javelina hands,

pausing to sip any underground juices sweet.

yes, a Mother Daytime Green Mining Market

camp here in these copper and silver docks,

busy buying selling grass mattresses and pastels, baby,

with occasional intruders

loco desperado Cananea wind gusts,

Pancho Villa reincarnated tugging at our cojones,

abducting gringo ranchers further south

below remaining rebel strongholds,

campesinos tearing down the fences

lining goldtooth toothpicked Spanish Teacup Reservations.

so it was in these parts on a Thanksgiving 1973 noon

a hundred "new people" conjured up some dry air

ontop a makeshift Wakefield mineshaft paradise,

where hungry coyotes never concede defeat

at twice steal your eyes blind,

and as the promise of feasting entered its 3rd day,

thirsty washes no longer remained strung out

but hopeful and luminary.

then…

gallopin down some brokeback hill in comes The Lone Ranger

hopin off a buckskin Oro,

stroppin left to right and back again

tan swede cowboy boots

kickin up and down,

mind explodin fireballs,

arms jugglin canvases splashin improbable striped colors,

eyes jivin transplanted Don Quixote windmills,

lips adlibbin lies coppin neither respect nor modesty,

a reencarnated Robert Hunter's Jack Straw from Wichita

humin bootleg Dead songs,

rides in blowin away Phelps Dodge predators

while wavin at us fellow dumpsters

diggin away at sub rosa turquoise rockpiles.

so this Phineas guy finally springs atop a soapbox woodpile:

“hey furry freak sisters and brothers,

here's this holiday

Woodstock Southwest…

come swig this moonshine electric juice

munch these Alice B. Toklas brownies

serenaded by mandolins, guitars, and tablas,

and later be welcomed to hangover trays of menudo

plates of kosher salmon croquets”!

far out!

these long-silent Wakefield Mine lighttowers may not sparkle like old,

but the wooden miner’s barrels have been filled

with electric Owsley bubbling over

charging our rainbow generators

jammin 12-string guitars and Bansuri wooden flutes.

so it came to pass

we cosmic maverick meteorite magicians and newcomers all,

inspired by Phineas,

made off with any traces of virgin Sonoran skies,

outbluffed the foolish military industrial counterfeit hunters of clay.

so Happy Thanksgiving to one and all-

next year in Tombstone Canyon!

The Wakefield Mine

Huachuca Mts

Thanksgiving, 1973