FAT VACATION STALWARTS AT MONTY'S PEAK
I have stood on mountaintops higher than this
and nothing special has come of it : twenty small
parcels of land stretched out before me, some
bitterroot that the Indians ate and, of course, those
two half-naked babes drinking lemonade. It seems
like it's always been this way - crazy Summer tourists
in thin clothes and tawdry colors yapping about
distended fallions while their cellphones and Ipods
bump on. What the hell's this all about? Can't anyone
now go anywhere alone? Are they so fucking afraid
of their silence?
An infantile babble both seen and heard - the worst of
it all, it would seem, comes here.
---
Notes: the sickening taste of lemon, the venom of an
eagle's cry, the saucy drip of piggish adolescents, the
way people reflect nothing so much as what they are
at heart and how poorly they've been raised.
No comments:
Post a Comment