I hike in to the Coachella foothills

south in the desert of Palm Springs

into a past with no memory.

The desert has no memory.

It is only wind, sand, sun and rock.

The trail dives steeply

into cragged boulders of granite, sandstone,

quartz and eons of sand.

How I have known these depths

like a parched Tantalus.

There is a silence, so intense, so enveloping

that can only exist in the desert.

It is deafening and encompassing,

a blanket of transparent death.

Shadowing my weary steps it hovers

like the hummingbirds in the valley below

darting here, there and everywhere all at once,

waiting, secretly patient, endlessly quiet.

My boots create micro-nuclear bursts

that explode into mushroom clouds.

An emerald lizard scans the horizon

seeing me yet not moving

secure in the knowledge that I’m no threat,

just another unwanted guest.

Heat gathers in concentric circles

like a coven of witches tending their brew.

Thirst travels deep

how I cannot yield to its steel grip.

Heat is a spoiled child screaming,

a hacksaw grinding virgin pine,

dancing, leaping, scattering light

into razor shards of pain.

Sweat pours everywhere.

I’m like a sponge as I crawl up

into the womb of the hill

squeezing myself into a lemon rind.

Step after weary step

the day slowly turns to darkness.

I stumble from the path

confident in the knowledge

that walking can clear the soul

scattering the twelve step program

from the remembrance of things past

when dependence can mean

that lonely silent desert –

now itself a quaint, sober memory.