I was standing underneath the portal thing out front of my dad’s house watching the rain just pour it’s little ass off and soak our town. It reminded me of standing under the portal deal on the stage at the Wild West Show in Six Flags in Houston. Being Houston it would rain a lot of course, and so we did that plenty, standing there in our cowboy costumes not doing a show, watching the rain just pour. It was always a good break. So now I have this habit of just stopping and taking a break when it rains like that.

Well I was sitting there, thinking about how it’s the desert here in Albuquerque, and how it just doesn’t do that as often as Houston. But I thought, man we’re getting drenched right now. And that reminded me of the last line of this poem, “the last time the sky opened up and drenched her”.

It’s a badass poem, because of all its layers of meaning. There’s these layers of symbolism that are pretty clear, and even some maybe unintended but obvious stuff like environmentalism, and the wisdom of the desert, the wisdom of not wasting your tears, all kinds of neat stuff, but Tamara had told me what the poem was really written about. It was really written about a bunch of tough biker dudes that Tamara knew in AA. Fucked up Tamara’s anonymity there, but I know enough about Tamara to know she holds no secrets on that score.

So the poem is actually this big metaphor for these guys being real, feeling, emotional beings, despite their gruff exterior.

Do not think the desert is disinterested in water
because she holds no oceans
because no streams run through her
because she does not waste it in tears
beneath the surface
cleaved to damp inner spaces
is the rain
from the last time the sky opened up
and drenched her

It’s saying, hey, don’t think just because these guys are tough and seem gruff and whatnot that that means they don’t feel, or they’re not interested in sharing or caring or all that. Don’t assume they don’t want beauty or love. But at the same time, look how badass they are. Look how they thrive off the little love and tenderness they DO get. Look how they keep it safe in them. It’s all in there.

I think I’ll write the whole poem here:

The world awaits your touch
she has held herself open for centuries
golden valleys of brittle grass
awaiting touch
that brings forth life
from dead, withered stalks

do not think the desert is disinterested in water
because she holds no oceans
because no streams run through her
because she does not waste it in tears

beneath the surface
cleaved to damp inner spaces
is the rain
from the last time the sky opened up
and drenched her

Nice.

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