BisCHESShoP

In a deserted canyon of lights,
where the indigo desert night
bloomed like a hay fever dream,
our ride devoured steamy asphalt,
a behemoth of steel and engine fire.

She clutched my inner gear shift,
eyes ablaze like hot rubies,
her gossip rolling a mary jane spliff.

Roswell's hum, a jackrabbit call,
drew me in, blind to the danger,
entranced by the mystery.

Straw and snort of intellect,
to the cranium encased dome,
inhaler brought gift of home
a pinecone in the backbone
of a summer tome of stone
comb hum of hair flung sunglasses
and a forty ounce of;
shut the elevator cup.