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the mountains are on fire,hogback pass. Ive been wandering threw time with my friend’s friends from the past. Its hard at first,but you get use to it...always having to be human,that is. I sit and coddle these thoughts,like their a child whom I didn't bring into the world,like one whom your scared of knowing where it came from. Screaming and beating my mental states, I race to think of ways to say anything.I usually stutter and mumble. I’m to humble,I’m sure;Its like being late to a funeral,everyone knows. Ive got this pokerface,you know? The one that could cut threw bone. It makes me uncomfortable imagining how I must look...but alas I must leave some shook to the sight of;I have to keep my wits about it. Lonely camel butts litter my feet,and Im not saying anything. Im listening to laughter and only imagine a million reasons why its happening. Should I say words? No Ill just remain intimidated,on the verge of vomiting all over this nice furniture. Ugly,persistent,satan like thought process,you sicken my celestial body;I condemn thee.A video game now is the light of the mood,gunshots and bomb shells from battle creek to lockout.Pass the blunt...It smells like beer in here,and I know my best friends sober. I wonder how to cope with this when we get home. I’am high,she's not saying a thing. The whole night feels like it needs blame:”great.” I think. So many air quotations and stares out the windshield,I think it had something to do with the stale cigarette air,or the burning forest,which we chose to put or selves above. The moon light was even coughed out by the smoke,and gawked at by the sun. “control your territory!” the star would yell. Never could I tell wether to make this life out as heaven or hell,or anything more than a cycle of seeing,touching and smell. Remembering and learning how to love,teach and tell. Swollen hands patting my head;and I had forgotten about all of this. Love and compassion,insane human logic. Life is but a living beehive,geometric patters,add tonic. Sight of old cherry blossoms,where dragons used to spend their time. My old broken finger keeps acting up,and Im sure by now im lost. A forgotten local celebrity who dreamed of being bigger and found out he needed to be that small fish in the big pond,or however the old saying goes. Trusting that he was never coming back again,with his head in his hands,the blood from his nose stained his beard,it was ritualistic in a sense. The hot summer air is no different up here. I remember as a child reading a book,and it depicted a man meditating on a bead of nails,when convinced to sit on the pillow he gave out a thunderous yell;went back to this previous chair,and was relived by comfort,and to be fair,I see a lot of myself in him. Morrison lay in ruin as the channel nine news team keeps you up to date,its amazing to think these ways.