Wild Horses

“Look hard. What do you see. What do you want to see?”

“Can you feel your eyeballs exploding from the heat?”

“I am afraid to tell you what you are afraid to hear.”

Always in a programmed circle, merry go round horses always in a fashion bobbing up and down on shining steel shafts, oiled and greased and well lubricated by sexual assault in wide country where there are no boundaries, no fences, gates, impediments or ticket takers. Risk takers survived.

Wild mind horses in rhythm as the electric current flows and follows rainbows across the sky. Their desert world is blood red, mottled browns littered with sage, dry washes, discarded skins. Some horses need another coat of paint, some have worn down ball bearings and cry out for forgiveness through their pain and torture.

As if on cue they break free of coated molds rear and gallop away through the park to the amusement and horror of patrons relaxing on a day when everything is quiet and taken with a grain of salt. Salt is traded for gold. Commodities. To market we go.

They stampeded their thunder warnings to the shadows as hoofs flashed lightning bolts sending people cowering into corners. Humans were frozen mesmerized in one motion. All is still as stallions with silk coats glistened and paraded past fearful human eyeballs.

Horses remained free and find their way out of the enclosure. They take no hostages, make no unreasonable demands and are allowed to remain free on their own recognizance.

The merry-go-round operator scratches his head in wonder and surveys empty poles. His eyes follow tracks left in damp soil and he knows they are gone forever. They are shadows. He is chained to the earth to pay for the freedom of his eyes.