Ponderosa

In the low light of the hut the old man sat quietly pu?ng on his mapacho. “You must disengage from your…continuity,” he said, referring I’m sure to my earbuds, which, with apologies, I cranked. As I tapped the last drop out of the clay cup and laid back on the ragged foam mat I saw that the old man’s face was no longer his, but a hawk’s. The spirit-world comes on like that.

The music I came to see with my third eye, Ponderosa’s Pool Party

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