Not like in Mongolia
Where there's less yellow mustard
To absorb all thought
And the mountain portals
Don't hide behind telephone poles.
They just hop on the horses
And make friends without saddles,
A descent into the underworld
Where spirit rules.
King Maximus cares nothing for that,
He's too old to keep that hatch down.
The bug people look on confused.
The deep mind doesn't know what to say.
Could it be that every mountain
Is an old technology,
Carved to make way for equal space
In Agartha?
Brio falls into the angel dust
Of the arena, so happy
To rely on gravity,
One would almost say he smiled
At what we knew.
The grass so needy to be ripped by the lip
It calls the horse to gorge
The most deranged clover.
A bunny, showing no fear
Of his cuteness
After Easter
Muses in the grass,
Goes ears twitching into the foxtails,
Joins the mother mountain
In her invisible apron strings
At the ridgeline of civilization.
The horsegirls fuss
At scabs and such
But the horses just rub dirt in it;
What doesn't kill you
Toughens you up,
Like selenium in the salt lick
Cos it's not in local California dirt.
The only grass he eats is nature.
