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Matthew Homer

End of the Habitable World

Love and the Abominable Snowman resides in the rock at the end of the habitable world where we walked for seven days, upwards and outwards, toward the edge of the rock, where no one else tread and the snow fell but we weren't cold. We stayed in empty lodges with the wind whistling through amd soon the shackles fell off slightly, and the sand left my eyes and I saw for the first time the huge expanse of space and light ethereal and time slowed to the sound of my breath which became stronger and clearer. My head finally opened up and my skin became pink as every day was longer and harder, across impossible ravines, along the trails of goats and the yeti and still we pressed on and on till the night sky was an explosion of stars that I used as eyes for a snowman I built on top, with a live coal for the heart and shaggy sticks for hair, as it was me.

Nepal 2000.



Washed and dressed as usual, in salt air and cotton, after a long swim in the south china sea with huge waves and a terrific undertow, bathed and swathed and covered as I was in dust and grime and bugs in my teeth and aching arms and legs, shivering not from the cold but from eshaustion, that dreamy alive exhaustion that begs no food and needs nothing but to lie on the beach and barely move and can't sleep because I'm too tired or maybe just too happy to feel the warmth of my blood and the slow beat of a full heart and the dull ache of a well used body.

China Beach!

On the way to China Beach, ducking behind trucks as we pass checkpoints to avoid the green uniforms the color of rice fields, with guns and sticks and yellow stars asking to see papers or to get money while we tool along at top speed, hair getting longer and wilder under a black bandana and dark sunglasses to shelter and hide, and big american grins with yellow teeth and no worries, even from sadistic cops who we laugh at and act like we don't understand, or if we do we aren't giving them any money anyway because we don't much look like we have any, and our pockets certainly don't have any, only cigarettes and scraps of paper with notes like "shot at 1/250 f16" which means nothing to them and less to me and will certainly be discarded before tomorrow.

She moves among us

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