Once left clumps of hair on the pillow.
Convinced myself that this was where it was supposed to grow.
I finally learned that not to be the case.
Conjectured other mysteries worth investigating.
A sign cropped up on a highway 13 miles to somewhere.
Treated it as an omen when I passed Integration,
population someone had crossed out.
Roadside littered by a hodgepodge of scree like hair left on a pillow.
Somewhere over the rise, Integration,
next hillock could be harboring a town for wholeness.
Felt the need, as the miles crept along for integration.
Wind rolled-towel-slapped at my head, met
endless array of clacking teeth, cast-offs chattering in the Boreas.
Meaty, fingerless hands like miniature Saguaro cacti grew from the earth,
plinths buried in the sand supported the sky,
cat's eye-marbled apertures peeped from the earth followed me,
miles of intestines wrapped slimily about the landscape like Christmas light strings.
Dis-integrated beings pulverized into the soil where no heaven or hell exists
Only this landscape of randomly sprouting parts.
Integration, asphyxiated cell choked into non-existence,
DNA declares it a do not admire zone,
no Frankenstein to re-animate it,
Integration only a sign on the road to nowhere.
Yesterday's wreckage
lies still, sedately;
a twisted aircraft
unwrapped on the hillside,
silence shrieking through
the wind-warped trees,
one body ranged amongst
the pink creeping phlox,
another calmly crucified
on a barbed-wire fence
whose teeth bare flecks
of rain-rinsed fleece.
