Tomorrow I go back to New Jersey for the second time since coming to the desert. I’m told it’s turned bitter. I have no doubt that leaving will be a most bitter sweet event, if for no other reason than to come back to my time warp here in Arizona. I freaking wrote a fucking poem about it the other day. I figured I should do something constuctive before I set out for 10 days, of what I’m sure will be nothing less than debauchery.
Flight 434 took me out of my home.
A monday night in Arizona finds me writing on the steps alone.
The vivid desert sky brings no chill for the night, as I sit, candidly swimming in halogen light.
It’s surreal here.
Ironic is the reflection of a palm tree in a puddle.
The rain doesn’t understand, the ‘art of subtle’.
Time stays stagnant, without the changing of the season.
The warm banisters and sidewalks are a special kind treason.
The kind only a foreigner can see.
Summer is winter holding it’s breath.
And here it suffocates, me.
Joshua Ziering