Back to Raven Feathers.
Write me a painted desert
you know it’s home.
Tell me where the snakes have gone,
their trails in the sands of your brain.
Tell me about the ethereal Indian ghost
to whom you played the awestruck host.
Tell me about the sea of bleeding humanity
that you saw with a childhood gaze.
Tell me about the rays
of the sun overhead.
you’re telling me
of more fantastic,
poetic, and sometimes spastic
Your boot prints remain in the sand
as you explored what
few have dared.
Were you a victim of your own fame,
a victim of the rock star game?
Did you unwittingly open your shirt
and invite the knives into your chest?
Were you a strange saint
who turned demon instead
by the ghosts of ego stroking
invading your precious head?
Where did you live, Lizard King?
where is your desert house?
And are your words the signposts
to your door?