There’s a mountain lofty enough
it takes two days to make the peak.
It rises in the heart of a desert
where nomads pray to any passing
mirage.
They’re satisfied to dine on
scorpions
while downing barrel cactus juice.
They hallucinate of cubicles
floating in a glass of cabbages and
ginger
looking at the rain streak the
skylight
hoping they’ve secured the windows
in their newly-leased Honda Civics.
One of them flies out the door to
check
but strikes the mountain there
instead.
Soon she’s in a globe of berries.
The air is fragrant with exacting
freshness.
She sees above the ripples of heat;
there’s not an office in her eye.
Half-way up she finds a halfway
house.
It’s an edifice she’s yet to dream.
She’s genially greeted at the door
and welcomed with the latest
reality
of living rooms and large flat
screens
with twenty-four hour
interruptions.
Exhausted with the climb, she wants
to stay.
Twenty years later, she’s out to
catch a breather
and meets a mad man coming down the
mountain.
Maybe it’s a mad woman. He raves or
she raves,
“You’ve stopped believing in a
personal god,
but you’re still believing in the
personal!”
and then turns to return to the
sky.
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