Out west we gazed with Ansel Adams Eyes

at Lovecraftian pillars melting with

a grotesque sense of moisture and when 

we journeyed further down it got cool 

and the air heavy with a subterranean weight

the crowd grew quiet but the handrails

were still greasy

we were certain that somewhere

there would be a hole to hell or somewhere

like it

where a hundred flash lights are dying as they fall

Like children we laugh at everything

phallic, which is everything

the sun is setting now and only

a single elevator works and we 

ran into the two hippie chicks who 

drank Texas beer in the Texas mountains

with us

The sun sets but the heat is still the same