Gone West

 

Sioux Tacos

Foundation of tradition
not comprehended by eager pupils
fascinated by sweet foreign dough
as long as nobody kneads
the dough
or needs to know of
Flour salt sugar souls
covered by
covered with
refried fragments of
Layers not truly mixed
sprinkled  green brown
Lettuce does not belong

Anywhere

sour the cream
of the so called gods
on top served by teary eyes
mourning life’s
onions.

9000 feet high

Banks speckled
cracked dry
long silky lines
cast not too

far eyes

can see inviting

Prey
to dance
sweet times
soft death
the catcher will
crest eternal one

Day

cliffs high on the overlook
weathered hands
dance with the hook

The moon and sun rise.

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