Speed freaks, crackheads and cocaine cowboys
litter the streets of Bull Head City.
Dead enders in a dead end world,
a landscape as dead as the cretins
who inhabit it.
Tweakers twitching, unknowing,
caught in a Venus Flytrap
called Bull Head City.
Rockheads riveted, like starving rats,
grazing the carpet for crumbs,
hoping the granite boulders will turn
into pure rocks of cocaine.
Searched for upon bended knee.
Basers behold the creamy land
and wind blown sand,
fantasizing, of the big score.
Wishing their straws were big enough
to take it all in.
Denizens of a dead end
drug culture
exiled in the Wilderness.
[c] 2002 by Rosemary Winters Tracey
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