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. Home