A composite of scans from a visual poem
"These mountains are my
waiting room. From the moment we are
born we are waiting to die. Some of us
see it this way, and some do not. For me the
sky is too blue, the water too cold, the sun too blinding.
For words. My translations are little more than cheap
copies in sidewalk chalk. The earth is my mother, but
I will never become her. The best I can hope to do is offend
with my weak praise and bumbling admiration. So I lay out
to feel the sun burn and blind. To watch the sky in its hues of
blue. To let the water rush over me until I am rigid and numb.
I am my own sacrifice to the gods I no longer call to in the dark.
Here let me love you. Come let me hold you. We are all waiting. Some of
us, however, see white walls and iron; no mountains hold them in this game.
For lo, as I walk through the valley of the shadow of death yonder rise the
suns. Burning with passion. Drenched in contentment. These skies are so
Created: Oct 20, 2009Image Media