Crossroads
So at this point I had to decide whether I was going to stay in Belize, jettison my return, stay for Ramona, put-off Colorado and a homecoming job search with ends dead and deaf to lyric...If I went home it was to face winter and a tail-between the legs reunion with a childhood place, old friends I loved, and a head still beat with a pitchblende radioactivity...San Francisco, Ex-wife, Family, polonium rays of culture shock and dissonance...Stay in Belize and collect unemployment continue to continue a relationship with my maker reaching levels of friendship and happiness...it was crossroads, complexification, and I needed intelligensia, enactors, and most of all, I cried and this outloud “Why Ramona, did you not come with wheels?” There I was drunk on the light, drunk on the air, the music, the sea, and drunk on Belikan too, for what to do, for an inability to enact good, but drink some nights away because it was the nights where I’d say “It’s not very leggy in here!” If Ramona had wheels! Or a thousand legs! The superior person has a conclusion...mountain is where one kills the self, but sea is where the will is whet, the sea writing down what it’s saying now 30 minutes during howling wind and the X roads and where to go—go back to kill the self or remain past the eighth day of January and forego my aeroplane pass and extend a sense of the unknown, cull some wisdom from the realm of silent light, defer to this desire to possess Ramona—and back in the house I began sit again, worried but silent prostrated, thinking of the sage and what the sage would do, how I might be looked upon by the Marrying Maiden or the good-hearted approach of a humble practitioner...
Turns out the sage said oppression and the abysmal to my later query of a possible outcome to returning to Colorado...meaning I based my life-move on chance for the first time in a sun-colored moment and I could do it within some corridor of humor both within and apart from the 3 lords of Materialism...I loathed the lord of form yet I revered Ramona’s blythe curves...I damned the lord of speech yet I often left bold cries strewn about the wind’s vacuum...I thought little of the lord of mind but of the tropics...the tropics are made on waiting, joyfully in golden light cleaving to illumination...One learns to wait and watch when in striking distance of the equator...the equalizer of day and night...with Ramona from that erogenous zone Ecuador, I thought of her lain, propped, leaned up, lotus, corporate sit, triangle posture, thunderbolt and cow-face posture, her walk on my back, virginal missionary, cogra pose, standing cunnilingus, flat-backed half-limp fellatio, and the dead pose otherwise known as corpse posture...Ramona never coming back oh Sage!......Despite all this, and given the sage advice from previous and the ornery resolve to get at it, neglecting the hinge and bowstring, the crane needn’t show itself on the high hill of my mind...I was staying.
-Michael Price
