Soaked senses tell me
the top of the "mountain" is dry
like ice.
With a hyper-awareness
I clatter along,
with a warm coating
of ever-changing plaid
warmer than flannel-
burlap bones
wrapped in velvet veins-
and all of these observations
report to a head of fuzzy stars.
So when this stairwell
feels like a scene from the Cold War,
with its chilled chipping cinder block,
violent eruptions,
and moaning drafts-
a cause that my allies
in the self-flushing latrines
have long forgotten-
I will understand,
as they will,
and you'll just have to trust
the facts reported to you
from yours truly.
-Gonzo