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j-ArturoPoems
nothing lives at 14,000 feet. on the high pass the last land the grassland we'd drag our sheep to briefly graze between the valleys of colca, and puno. focused in motion, heads low wrapped round in many layers when we'd sleep. in dens, in dark, in distrust of stars and worn old men of mists each night, that toothlessly bite, at broken brown stone, gums hopeless, hungry, salivating and desperately white. nothing lives at 14,000 feet. but rocks dreaming cold rock dreams. remembering when babel fell... fists first ****** from young rubble, to find that hands are hands and hands can climb. nothing lives at 14,000 feet. but the livestock we'd drag and keep alive, tireless because towers are brought low but hills only grow and there are coats to stay the snow. but to pass through this place we knowing tempt death, incur the wrath of Abraham blaspheme the Word and the Way and the rich air and pastures, from which rocks are raised to keep us from the heights for which we lust. in old history, obvious. forgot. spoke only in folk songs. ritualized in rote laws. but in secret, memorialized. as solitary, at the highest point each passerby takes pause... stares down at the earth from the sky, kneels, in the dust, picks up three, four, not more, small brown rocks to place at maras in defiance and triumph. superstitiously stacking little stones. as if to say, "here lord. here is something you can knock down. here is something you can bring low."
0
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 9:30 AM UTC
the second deepest canyon in the world
nothing lives at 14,000 feet. on the high pass the last land the grassland we'd drag our sheep to briefly graze between the valleys of colca, and puno. focused in motion, heads low wrapped round in many layers when we'd sleep. in dens, in dark, in distrust of stars and worn old men of mists each night, that toothlessly bite, at broken brown stone, gums hopeless, hungry, salivating and desperately white. nothing lives at 14,000 feet. but rocks dreaming cold rock dreams. remembering when babel fell... fists first ****** from young rubble, to find that hands are hands and hands can climb. nothing lives at 14,000 feet. but the livestock we'd drag and keep alive, tireless because towers are brought low but hills only grow and there are coats to stay the snow. but to pass through this place we knowing tempt death, incur the wrath of Abraham blaspheme the Word and the Way and the rich air and pastures, from which rocks are raised to keep us from the heights for which we lust. in old history, obvious. forgot. spoke only in folk songs. ritualized in rote laws. but in secret, memorialized. as solitary, at the highest point each passerby takes pause... stares down at the earth from the sky, kneels, in the dust, picks up three, four, not more, small brown rocks to place at maras in defiance and triumph. superstitiously stacking little stones. as if to say, "here lord. here is something you can knock down. here is something you can bring low."
j-Arturo
Written by
j-Arturo
American
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 9:30 AM UTC
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