Sex Slave of the Mountains

[the mingo]

I want to be the sex slave of the mountains. To explore & explode & expand the mystery of each of our names as a native nation, the one with the most mothers operating the moon for extremist cause until it becomes clear it was an artillery piece from ancient war in sport & spend & speed & trapped along with us in endless circling.
Examples multiply until we are without excuse.

As most do the old man becomes narrow, turns slowly toward his winter camp. He has answered the request of a distant son who has asked him for a copy of his birth certificate.
So the old man went to City Hall, a place whose poetic application is nowadays beyond him. Even in the bright full sun it is barely above freezing and he knows there is always a mistake in asking for asylum as most know not, or care to, the history of their words.

At camp he looks in the mirror. He knows the face he sees there is a fact the same as the fact that the old balloon factory on the banks of the river was sold off long ago along with the candy house. He'd heard once that the place was to be turned into a movie complex but the deal was never closed and the rats who live there now remain to feed & fuck & multiply, undisturbed in their happiness.