We Are All Made Of Clay

Albuquerque is fragmentary. It is an ever changing organism made up of countless interlocking parts that construct an appearance of wholeness. Its ligaments are long dry roads that stretch out so far that you would begin to think there is nothing else left for you if it weren’t for its mountainous head. Up there is snow thick enough to trap you at the waist. And so many trees you wouldn’t believe it was a desert; green leaves sagging under heavy white. Look down at the terracotta bungalows all lined up with identical wooden blinds and matching trucks parked outside, almost as big as buildings. See the girls talking on their iphones being watched by the homeless drunks waiting at bus stops for help that isn’t coming. See the police cars stopped, blue lights flashing, and men with their hands on their guns in preparation.

The sun breathes into the lungs of the city, you can see its great blue ribcage expand and contract under the immense load that it is carrying. There is blood too, somewhere beneath it all. An unfathomable redness within. It was there before houses and SUVs and Costco. Before the landfill sites were filled and before they were made.  It was there before the Navajo and the Apaches, before the Spanish and the Mexicans and the English. Before God. It was there before we learnt to categorize and before we learnt how to be in a world where there is nothing to do but be. It was there before and it will be there after, and so Albuquerque goes on living.