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COMMA SUTRA

G.A. Scheinoha

��Woven from the tough, inner fiber of being, words aren’t necessary, become weightless entities here at the roof of your world.
��Doesn’t matter. You haven’t the breath for them anyway. Exhale thoughts slowly, shallow as the last few breaths from a near empty oxygen tank.
��Punctuation even is moral pretense. Prehensile quotation marks clench, dew nails dig into, bleed out an unbidden morsel thought. A bubbling wound oozes forth the stench of a sense’s summons.
��Into this instant, igneous lake descends the Westerner. His eyes foretell an eerie, inscrutable Occidental myth. He can no more rise from the Gisa plain into a head’n shoulders above Sphinx dunes legend than unravel the indecipherable cartoon balloon over the generations frozen Sherpa, ensnared in the glacial amber of repressed Himalayan regret.
��And you wouldn’t, couldn’t be surprised if this were all merely some head spun hallucination that’s slowly unreeled since leaving base camp, was it hours, only minutes ago?
��Real shock comes when you stumble, stagger and tumble from the throes of fantasia. Land in the soft stuff. Sink not into yeti tracked drifts somewhere down the slopes. Just the restraining confines of a recliner, newspaper clasped between extended arms, a sudden, tight focus.



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