Along the edge of the long dry riverbed he rides--
a silhouette in the wavy heat. Even from a distance
you can sense the malice, the insanity that runs
through his veins electric and frenzied, 
making your own blood course faster, crazier, 
under more pressure, like a supernatural 
long distance transfusion you neither need nor want.

He rides closer, slow and deliberate, madness
turning the static coils of his brain into writhing
snake coils, madness you can see oozing out of his
dark eyes, and you just know that if he lowered
the bandana from his mouth, a long, skinny, forked
tongue would flicker out, sizing you up, zeroing in
on your scent, planning the fatal strike.

He dismounts and walks towards you, still 
slow and deliberate, savoring your fear,
feasting on it, drunk with it, then slowly
pulls down the bandana and he's smiling,
you knew he would be, and he pulls the knife.
It gleams in the sun, blinding you, until you feel
the cold steel on your neck, slicing swift and sure.

Faintly, as if off in the distance, you can hear him laugh
as you feel no pain, just a fading away, warm blood soaking
your chest, warm urine soaking your jeans, and you wonder how
with all that warmth, you can feel so cold, as the darkness
begins to spread, just like the blood and urine, spreading
wide and fast, and you wonder why it's taking so long to die.
He watches you until it is done, wipes his blade, and rides on.