by Andrew M. Harbach14 Jul 2014
Where the red bud grows, underneath the uppertoe... In the Hindu mountains where all of the stoners go. To haze away the gruesomely tedious day of the enigmatic human condition. While I take the long road, casting far above the undertoe, drink me in and pass me through a celebratory stance of life. Too great are perils to focus on hardship. Clearly indictment, one sight, horrific. Buddhist chants being called to lay an arm in a place where what was and what will be my futuristic face. And for far as fate can fit in its infant clenching fist, what we catch is limited to the water that slips through the spaces of our imperfections as we bowl quenching water for our thirst to end suffering.