Heavy raspy breath, up to my balls in ice and rock, burning adrenaline and subcutaneous fat. I crashed with my head upon a smooth granite stone as the icy rivers and slopes gave way to the first frosty meadows. Storm clouds piled into the Sierra skies and hailed a dream of apathy. Pure air and crystal waters; what I had been chasing all along.
It is easy to be a holy man on the top of a mountain. Got tired of being a hermit, a vagabond, a footloose hobo. Felt the need to put it in writing.
Hobo dances are the best though. For the record.
So, California, I came home. Dug up the past, melted it in the lonely desert. When I'm walking and the streets are full of strangers. Plane tickets are too easy to buy, Columbia is so close. But no.
Tired of being a hermit, a vagabond, a footloose hobo.
Something solid. Something nutritious. An empty garden bed. The seeds I've found in the poison swamps. The ruby crystal gemstone flare.
Home. Deep inside. Back to normal. Home.
Back to nowhere.
