Wasteland S.D. Parsons Poetry

local_library Wasteland

by S.D. Parsons

Published in Issue No. 4 ~ July, 1996

Madness runs
with a soul
as loose as skeletons
across burnt prairie sage,
over scorched gullies,
raw — dusty
pale thunder
arriving at the horizon’s gate,
breathless and stale.

Gray rain follows
slipping the froggy asphalt
in zig-zag dance,
criss-crossing the wasteland
with haphazard skips, dips,
rolling monotonously,
cartwheeling past
the hellish grave
of a squalid, homeless sun.

Ochre, sienna, and umber;
the colors of dying
paint the tiled walls
of sorrowful landscape
in masquerade.

I am the face
who’s shadow carves
red sandstone spires
into self-mocking

Washing green,
oxidize my silhouette
into crags and crevices
where scorpions hide
deadly daggers:
sweet, pointed pistols
filled with black
marrow of death.

I am the death
of nature’s beauty,
my species,
my absolute man-kindness,
obsidian tongue
parched and pale
from wanting.

A single raven
radiant against the dark,
bright sky,
settles broken bets,
fence posts,
iridescent feathers
glimmering sapphire, ruby,
encrusted jewels
from night’s stark mask.

This land,
vast blizzard tracts
of empty alkali.

I stand grounded,
the exact center
of infinitesimal obscurity,
counting stars like pennies,
arms outstretched,
cursing god,
while she steals
over salt thresholds.

I smile.

As the raven caws,
I run a finger
against the scythe
of her profession.

My blood drips
slowly, watering
spring flowers
pink, blue, the palest
of peachy yellows.


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S.D. Parsons spends the majority of his time traveling the world in search of the perfect cappuccino. A Zen Buddhist at heart, he feels the downfall of all Western Civilization can be traced directly to man's inability to accept his neighbor's God. He says: "We stand on the cusp of great understanding, but our ignorance blinds us, keeps us from seeing the miracles unfolding right before our eyes."