jagged black obsidian

avant-guard pink sandstone overtake this new journey

skies salting away- ice blue-

beckoning the sun to pay up

its outstanding Mexican dues

and frontier mountain ranges

search past Oregon purple manzanitas

packed tightly amongst juniper canyons jazzed murals,

calling out hypothetical names in delight

offering us lusty drinks of burnt orange sand

and thirsty alligator oak branches

above outstretched javelina hands

pause to sip any underground juices sweet-

Mother Daytime Mining Market

camping out in these copper and silver docks

buying and selling grass mattresses and pastels, baby,

while occasionally the residents are attacked

by desperate loco

Cananea

gusts,

like Pancho Villa

tugging at our balls,

abducting gringo ranchers further south

down below those remaining rebel strongholds

to be sold into slavery

at goldtooth toothpicked Spanish Teacup Reservations

Thanksgiving noon a hundred "new people" conjure up some dry air

ontop this makeshift mineshaft paradise,

where hungry coyotes never concede defeat

at twice steal your eyes blind,

and as the hunt moves into its 3^rd day,

thirsty washes remain strung out,

monsoonless,

hopeful

when all at once

gallopin down a brokeback hill

in rides Jon,

then hops off his buckskin Oro like The Lone Ranger,

stroppin left then right

his tan swede cowboy boots

kickin up and down,

mind explodin fireballs,

arms jugglin canvases

splashin improbable colors,

eyes jivin transplanted Don Quixote windmills,

lips adlibbin lies

givin neither respect nor modesty,

a reencarnated Robert Hunter's Jack Straw from Wichita

humin bootleg Dead songs,

and all the time grinnin away at Phelps Dodge predators,

wavin at fellow dumpsters

diggin away at sub rosa turquoise rockpiles

so this Phineas springs atop a soapbox woodpile:

“hey furry freak sisters and brothers,

there's a holiday comin…

will you be there

with electric juice and Alice B. Toklas brownies,

mandolins and guitars,

serving hangover trays of menudo

and plates of kosher salmon croquets”!

far out!

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

but Jon's filled the wooden miner’s barrels

with Owsley bubbling over

charging our rainbow generators

now jamming 12-string guitars and Bansuri wooden flutes

inevitably, this cosmic maverick meteorite magician

has stolen away any traces of virgin Sonoran skies,

while outbluffing any foolish military industrial counterfeit hunters of clay

so Happy Thanksgiving to one and all-

let’s party!

The Wakefield Mine

Huachuca Mts

Thanksgiving, 1973