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Nâ Çest 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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