barren places, especially high places, here mountains spiral, here what exists
plummets, then ruptures into rapture. this is the foreseen, the meditative

madness of winter, the turned sun, the roots of the Tree, transparent
even blind and sublimely careless. condor bones and mountains

in free fall, with this there is surprise and chaos, yes, and creative
energy in its most material form, the sphere, Thought, Bliss,

between them, Existence. like a pool of mercury on a glass table,
we tore out walls, any not holding up the roof, and with this we found

sagebrush and rattlesnakes and cactus, an Eye that pierced the heavens,
ringed the body. the goat leaped on red rock walls in the shadow.

such sure-footed bounds upon earth’s summits are exquisitely tenuous,
complex and fantastic as forms of madness. this is my training,

running in the mountains. the pangenetor, the tree of Life, these clouds
over the mountains, animals breathe when they run. we run. we are creatures

unto ourselves, beautiful and frightening

seed texts:
Crowley, Aleister. The Book of Thoth. Weiser Books, 1974.
Carrier, Scott. Running after antelope. Counterpoint, Washington D.C., 2001.