BOO.

I don’t know…weird:

It all seems obvious, this clambering up sandstone slopes that you may better stick your nose, ears, eyes into the wind. There is a howling loneliness at the top as shared by this rowdy spruce. Tetons are distant, the blue of hanging exhaust, the Winds nasty and black, punctuations to resilient, lived sentences. I am perched on a perch feeling quite proud.


I’ve taken this picture before — floating out over the lived edge of things that I might look down the river, up the river, from whence I came to where I’m going. Blessed and ignorant am I in these unforgettable days. I’ll remember them as experiential and halcyon, but will I forget the individual leaves that sneak down my shirt or the endless parade of downed timber I monkey out, over, and across? I hope not. I deserve never to lose my triumphs because lo! there are always the weaknesses which support them.


The compass reads in every direction. Books read left to right. Suns set. The moon it rises just like its liquid form, tides. For each sentence we digest a hundred more are thrown back up and to the wolves. Complaining, I am not, rather quite happy I am.


Does anyone else wish for and with me? Is there sybaritic circus in the eyes that meet mine? Am I allowed my mind(s), aggregate and awful as we all know they are? Saints shitting smiles because we know exactly they types of thoughts given to us all.