ClockWork

Once. It was a week ago, it was a month a century a world ago, a sister and myself traveled from our beloved Bay seeking the treasures and dust of desert lore. We drove the I-5 until we reached LA where we dug into heaping bowls of Pho and passed out backseat-like in some winding suburb of Silverlake. Daybreak came and we shove off towards Palm Springs where the thrift gods blessed us. Bright skies open their blue mouths to our presence & spit us back out onto the black highways to which we came. Mecca, Ca appeared in the hazy, ripply future before our eyes. We parked our speedwagon and sniffed out our surroundings. The Moon was a stretch of flat land with white hot, cracked earth. The band of colorful tents perched there like foreign flags fluttering in the sky. Onward. 3 stages surrounding a murky lake. Palm trees like giant skinny pineapples poked up shading our pink shoulders. We wandered like stragglers who just caught up with the caravan. Finally, we were with our family. Stands lined the way with various charms like pies in jars, clocks made out of old hardcovers, LP's, vintage suede everything, leather goods and golden colored people with rosy cheeks and high spirits. We were in for a night of psychedelic music and we were in the desert.