Damien Gossett:  

August 2016 Time for stories, desert stories. What tales do surprise. It is not dawn yet and characters revealed in the coffee shops, health food stores, lumberyard, rest stops, laundromat have yet to be awaken. No longer trying to forget, the smell of you lingers in my nostrils your taste upon my tongue The dead fly trapped in the globe surrounding my reading light waits dancers drawn too close stayed too long near the bulb upside down now feet and wings dried and crisp before I leave l will clean the shade the city in the desert it is seen for what it was folded dilapidated fodder for scrap wood recycled designer cliches but you can hear it for what it is sagebrush tumbleweed harmony call to a limitless emptiness that is here a horizon not closer not to be closed a reinvention sputtered stalled on a roadside a detour where the bridge has washed out four lanes confined to one the highway is called serene it is anything but that misnomer will be found everywhere an artifact of memory how other places crept into your being what you called home mingled empty rusted paint cans holes unfilled passing time waiting timid the coyote scampers off it is not their way to be seen in the brilli...Expand for more