Santa Fe poem for the ladies

The Jack Wombats
by JIM PONDS

Jack Wombats would sing their songs in and around Santa Fe, New Mexico.
As a man from this region, I know their songs well.
Thinking about this region makes me feel a few things
But in reality, thinking about it is a big W.O.T.
Waste of time.
So I play. I literally play like a mother fucker.
And I waste time because I feel like I know what.
Like anyone else would if they had these golden memories!
Because baby I'm relative; I know it's true.
I do; I know it's true baby blue.
I hear their song, Simpa Chew.
Exploring wild to the bone mountain ranges,
Strolling through mountain dew.

The Jack Wombats migrated in 1988.
My priest told me.
I asked him if he was fucking serious man.
The Jack Wombats had never migrated from the City Different.
My priest said they would never come back to Santa Fe.
He mentioned how they wanted to win new televisions.
I threw up in his general direction.
It wasn't because of him,
Because I loved him as a major inspiration to my life and me.
It was because of the depressing news I learned from him,
About the Jack Wombats.

I checked out the epicenter of the Jack Wombat habitat.
I accused them of going through my shit.
They denied going through my shit,
But then why was my picture hanging on their tree?

I suggested they play their songs for money.
Or for goods which can be traded for money at the store.
With money they could buy new plasma screens.
But the Jack Wombats wanted to win their televisions at an Indian casino.
I mentioned that there were various Indian casinos surrounding Santa Fe.
They had ideas though.
Other ideas.
They had chosen the Fortunate Canyon Casino
In a Sioux Indian Reservation near River Fallas, Minnesota.
These creatures felt something sacred about the Fortunate Canyon.
Trying to argue with them would have been retarded.
The Jack Wombats are fucking hot heads.

The Jack Wombats migrated on the ancient New Mexican Indian holiday.
It was also a well known holiday in Waikiki.
I was pissed to see them go.
Absolutely devestatingly pissed.
But they did sing a few songs as they flew.

With their march onward Santa Fe lost its heart and soul,
Its blood sweat and tears,
Its bread and butter.
And as the story unfolds we sit and play out the events of the past.
I teach their songs to our children, our grandchildren.
As the Indians who inhabited this area did for many millenia,
We dance to the songs.
The girls perform puppet shows when they come of age,
Recalling the great gift of the Jack Wombats.
Their steady warm claws,
Their soft wings, a maze of veins, such a glorious red,
Like the Sangre de Cristo.

The Jack Wombats won their televisions.
Kino was their game of choice.
Perhaps there was a prophecy.
But they never returned to tell of their great journey.
I once knew why they failed to return,
But it has eluded me.
I once traveled to Minneapolis
And found the Jack Wombats living in ladeside mansions.
Wealth had changed them some,
But they maintained their majestic sense of the Southwest summer feeling.
And I managed to get one more song out of them.
That song goes like this:

Tha-la simpa chew
Tha-la timpa nu.
Impa bandomma ist Oootro coo.

Tha-la Santa Fe
Tha-la kanti zay
Catarim interig, jambe frew!

For those of you who have seen the still beating heart
Of a Jack Wombat
On Old Pecos Trail,
Call their jig by two names.
The first: Fore Cliff Foresight
And the second, more importantly: Four hooves and a burro.