How many scruffy words, compile on one another– the ecstasy of forgotten rhythm. white guys, abandoned to slur, traversing the forgotten lawnchairs of mono-syllabic intrusion a poem can close itself for the summer by drying the umbrella, shaking off moths, tattered broken vinyl seals and wrapping it all into a metaphor–the ‘is’ not ‘like’ absolutely…

[This is a poem I wrote a little over a year ago…It’s about a mountain in Tibet called Kailas that is worshipped by three of the main world religions over here. I think primarily Hindus, Buddhists, and one other. I know it’s wrong to blame the “idol” for man’s flaws, but I think putting it…