Rolled up all tight like that at the foot of Ana Purna,
Saturn throws his outer rings like a ring toss game at a carnival up
and over the summit.
and over the summit.
me ? a cup half full&
A sow bug armored in grey ribbed shell,
chanting a Soul Coughing tune over and over again like a mantra.
Translating the Tibetan Book of the Dead into Arabic.
Covering my eyes with a pillow of mist .
Traveling this last path as I grab handlfuls of huckleberries off tender limbs.
I set the bar to match 14 thousand feet where peak meets heaven where
the finest gasses of atmosphere shift
and change into soulfulness.
and change into soulfulness.
Chanting down Babylon&
rocking back &
forth
the pingy pangy sound of the tap of my foot
against the glass door that separates us
from our fate.
from our fate.
