the moon watches over the desert world

no more prairie dogs for their coyotes
no more scurrying like sweet little victims
with naive love, unjustified hope and small rodent brains
no more crying introspection

the moon sits high and watches
as sleep-walkers drag their bare feet across cold night sand
stirring up the attention of the worldy takers;
the vampirish fanged royalty of the desert
as the hell-hounds pick cute fur from their canines
with the bones of the trusting

blood sucker fodder in death trances and night gowns

the edge of the plane approaches and yet they scrape on with
anger denied
or unheeded
or coaxed back into its own slumber

they move like zombies with sleep in their eyes
moaning for compassion
because they deserve compassion
because they give compassion
compassionate bumper cars all caring for one another
and rightfully so

but the world is owned by wolves
personified, self-absorbed and hateful
stemming somewhere below from our molten pulp

somewhere there is a zipper into another world
a blankness
a vanishing
a vacuum

so I say
march to the edge and let them try to feed
on our exstinguishing, impassioned souls