Marfa

 

Marfa, TX has a way of  seeping into your bones. It becomes part of your DNA. A place you have to return to in order to recharge. 

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The Desert Never Forgets

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  At the crossroads where the desert splits itself like a wound, I sat.  I found a dive bar flickering under  neon bones of red and blue , a last-chance lantern for the lost. Inside,  country music bled slow from a cracked jukebox, steel guitar crying like a ghost that still remembered my name. Cigarette smoke curled into grey serpents above the bar, hissing secrets only the midnight and the damned could decipher. I drank  whiskey-bent lies straight from the bottle— truth tasted too clean for a night like this. The bartender’s eyes were moons of their own, half-lit, half-shadowed, seeing more than he ever dared speak aloud. Outside, the  full moon  hung heavy, round as an omen, bright as a spell, pulling at the sand, the blood, at every crossroads choice I’d buried under years of wandering. A gust rose from the west— warm, wicked, whispering— and I felt the desert stir, a witch’s hand brushing my spine , reminding me that magic lives in moments like th...
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A Farewell Spell for Marfa

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  A Farewell Spell for Marfa There’s a certain kind of dusk that only belongs to Marfa—the kind where the light bleeds slow, like a wound refusing to close. Dust rises from the road in amber halos, and the air hums with that strange, invisible electricity that’s neither joy nor sorrow, but something in between. Out here, endings don’t announce themselves; they just drift in on the wind, quiet as tumbleweed shadows. The desert feels hollow tonight. The motel signs buzz faintly, the horizon wears its bruise of burnt pink and violet, and the ghosts of all my former selves wander the edges of town, whispering promises they couldn’t keep. Even the wind sounds different—less like a song, more like a sigh. Marfa was once a kind of spell for me. The wide, merciless sky taught me surrender. The desert dust buried my noise, my need to belong. There were nights when I swore I could feel the old witches stirring under the mesquite—old souls who taught me that solitude is its own kind of prayer...
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The Starry Horse

 The horse came out of a wound in the sky  Stitched from extinguished stars  And the breath of things unnamed  It did not bow its head  It regarded me as if I were an apparition  When I touched its neck my fingers passed through frost and fire  And the desert opened like a eye that does not close  Peyote dreams  Green lightning bleeding into veins of night  Mountains rising and falling like sleeping beasts  Every grain of sand whispered a tally of bones it had swallowed  Cigarette smoke drifted beside me  Though there was no hand holding it  It unspooled in thin deliberate spirals  Like a sermon spoken by a mouth without a face  A dive bar in the horizon  Neon buzzed like trapped insects  A jukebox coughing up dusty confessions  Whiskey staining the wood with amber halos  Men bent over their glasses like penitents  Drinking to forget the shapes of their own shadows  The starry h...
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