Damage by a Metal-Clad Tip

when I say dad, the stem of the mountain waves. English is a perch, but is the perch a fish? is a fish a word over and above how I remember dad as dad? questions result in sunken parts of speech, and then I remember that the wind blew like something straight. that straightness, it is so Red Chinese, when you think that Tibet once had a nation. but nations aren't terrific, they are involved. the US arrived in the nick of time, a nick that this US incurred overnight. night was on top of the mountain, or near enough. you think air is precious? try 28,000 feet, and the complete cartoon. I'm in this tent that's very coffin-like: I like to use my imagination. my dad is dead in what I call the recent past. my mother is long gone, an echo when I stop to dream. air is thin. everything seems deadly, except then I repeat some mantra that exists in partial time. partial expectation, partial bodyweight, partial document while waiting. the mountain's stem wobbles with center. a dusting of rain can't penetrate the memory that would get me thru the night, here, in this document. rain has frozen into total plausibility. a person could structure properly to the top of this so called tallest thing. one could leave the mountain, eventually. this story becomes a story, like a ride off a cliff into the complete doze of a mountain full of snow. snow wants to stay. the sun finds crucial extension and bursting into song. some semi-trillionth of a second lets some vulture-goaded Big Bang extend to the point of matter. grim glaciers lope over the tops of impressive mountains, like that's going to bring John Lennon back. it's no longer the John Lennon that fits the space, it is Paris Hilton. and this Paris Hilton is on fire, literal filling of flames that lick all the dishes that she has ever eaten from. she's Tom Cruise and she sinks into snow. snow means something, someday. dad wants to be goodbye, but I won't let him. mom too. my reflexes turned professional.