I drive up the 395 like some new ageless nomad scouring the remnants of slick Silk Road IEDs, abstracting triangulations of fire, ambushing mile-high sniper squads and extraction teams
a tiny fist clutches eternity/prying open oblivion,/a drop of blood/right in the middle…
Mr. Wild is clean-shaven and smiling. He’s got a 10,000-mile gaze, and you cannot see the bottom of his pale, blue-gray.
somewhere beyond /the trying times/folding tears/into earth and wine
I drive palm springs desert side roads
windmill turbines slapping moisture
against the end of time…
And, I awoke with a start that you could not see, but you could feel if you were inside my body.
Beginning this week Asbarez is introducing a new regular column authored by Ara Mgrdichian