On A Mountain:

1.

I notice many layered golden tresses 

and greens, planes upon planes. Something

about the mountain range brings   

land into dimension more than other

scapes. Something in the height and 

the fall, in the 

wind that screwballs through and 

white sun. Though it's true, I don't 

know the mountain at all.

I've only just begun here, but I 

know the dirt differs. I know sound 

cradles and silence echoes. I know 

the aspen rustle and the creek rush 

tickle at the same volume and
frequency. The fluidity of mountains

does not discriminate. The people 

move more distinguished, more sure, 

each lapping at their own unique

pace. 

2. 

THE MOUNTAIN HATES ME.

I stubbed my toe and triggered a

rock slide. 

I slipped in the river and was 

gobbled in algae.

I was dusted in the face and 

squashed a baby squirrel between 

my belly and a tree trunk. 

I've been slit by aspen leaves

injected by buzzing things and 

all around me cars

drift off guard rails 

like fucking ballet. 

The sun screamed through
my sternum with LASOR-PRECISION 

while I was picking stickers out 

of my socks! and hoisted me up

by the tits, lungs and arteries, 

flung them on by-bouncing branches

of elder, birch and pine. So 

I might just gather 

rain to my chest 

and eat 

the sodden bark.