N‚ «est Ce Pas Olympus

by B. Somnouk Thao Worra
 
High in the mountains 
	the air seems so thin 
	poets tell me 
	the movies lied 

There is no wise man at the peak 
	no enlightened sermons at the summit 
	clad in cartoon robes 
	with the fabulously poor hygiene 
	reserved for only the holiest bonze 

Strewn across the tourist trap 
	former camps, lingering with peyote and marijuana
	bones of the shattered, snickering with 
	feigned novelty and righteousness 
	a young woman's festive undergarment 
	lost during a drunken search for peonies 

Sage advice is best found buried 
	in a sheath of scribbles 
	nestled by your heart 
	trust in poetry, they whisper 

In a cracked mirror found in the brambles 
	I barely looked human 
	holding my face in my palm 
	I could only wince and place it back down.


© 2001 B. Somnouk Thao Worra. All rights reserved.
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