Where is this rock?
I know.
I took the picture.
It was in early April, 2003.
The Iraq War was in its
invasion phase.
Johnny Mata, of Pecos, Texas,
Was still alive.
So was Lauri Pestiwah, of
Tuba City, AZ.
I stood and looked at this
rock.
It’s out in the high desert
of New Mexico.
Not so far from Trinity,
where the first A-Bomb was tested.
It is part of a library,
2500 images, 25,000?
On these smooth black rocks,
With snow capped mountains
behind and to the east.
Beyond the mountains, Texas.
The US Government knows this
rock too.
It’s in a National Monument,
staffed with an old geezer from Connecticut.
Who comes out west to sit
in a trailer and talk to folks,
Who loves this off-road
spot, and smokes his cigarettes.
“I seen a rattler up there
the other day,” he coughs.
“Watch yr step.”
I look at this picture on
my computer.
I feel like I found this
book.
I feel like I was there,
in its unknown celebration.
Wood smoke. Meat.
Moon. Stars.
Or maybe a message about
the big city way to the Northwest:
Chacco.
And their beautiful women.
I give the old guy a dollar.
I’m too cheap to buy a souvenir.
The stuff doesn’t look too
real either,
After my walk in the library
on the hill.
The rock stays in my mind.
And I meanwhile reside in
someone else’s
Ones and zeros, centralized
Datafied, reminders, like
these rocks too.
Just in case.
--silk hope, 5/16/06 |