With slipstream Psilocybin silliness
Hank and I ascend the Anasazi trail
toward Pueblo Alto.
Step by giggling step;
rocks breathing in rhythm
with our high-altitude pant.
Endless cairns make pass
(some need adjustment, most not)
their oblique implications
we disunderstand.
Humans lurk ahead
out of psychic range.
We ignore them.
Nuevo Pueblo looms,
framed by teasing thunderstorms.
My stomach hurts.
I have to shit.
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2 comments:
Did you really go there? If so, send some photos.
-Mom-
yes, send photos.
[snicker, snicker]
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