effects of changes/ in air pressure

ben goertzel

Perhaps a hundred thousand horny
penguins will emerge from a blank
spot in the air 
and in the throes of their mating
dance will hang me by my T-shirt

Here anything can happen

Here where the hills and trees
and rocks sprawl out
like an alien woman's body
Inviting you to explore every curve crevasse
and dimple
Where there are no Keep Out signs
no barbed-wire fences
The rain pours down like the sweat
of a lover
Guinea pigs zip bush to bush as mountains capture
the sun, and blah blah blah
Quechua speakers in colorful dresses that scream and
laugh pan-pipe stripes 
red blue yellow

Bugs playing in the sunlight
Boys playing soccer,
hiding in Inca tunnel caves,
sun-god carvings faded
waiting for rain's end

Baby llamas done up in ribbons and bows
for tourists
baby humans unadorned ignored
in sashes on hardworking mothers' backs

If the sun were to land on the hill right
behind me, and laugh out a wall
of green fire, it would hardly surprise
me at all

I don't believe in magic
There is some kind of magic
Here the air is thin
We're close to the sun

Effects of changes / in air pressure / ensuing from altitude :
Pringles potato chip cylinders
explode thrust to bursting, their
plastic lids popped off
Bouncing walking down cobblestone narrow streets,
the air pockets in the soles of my Reeboks
pushed out through the soles
Air is wider, louder, wilder 
up here
My mind too is exploding,
its molecules pushing out
to no end good or evil
each small part of me
its own crazy sun

Each of these Quechua flesh
creations is my own mental molecule
The soccer ball smooth headed is my own
mental molecule
the hills that seduce me
are my own mental molecule
Quenqo caves winding dreaming
are my own mental molecule
Delusions of ancient Inca magic 
are my own mental molecule
bloated air cells in my sneakers
are my own mental molecule
bloated ideas in my brain
are my own mental molecule
The penguins of paranoia
are my own mental molecule
Stores restaurants hotels
are my own mental molecule
The Inca tiny sun god
is my own mental molecule

My own mind is nothing
I'm just a particle out here
in the world
body among bodies
with a job, a camera,
a wallet, a face full of whiskers,
a wallet too fat for my own safety,
these campesinos don't have much,
i could be attacked at any minute
by impromptu banditos
entirely justified by their own situations
in desiring the cash
in my pockets

I should give half my dollars to the workers
in these fields but I won't: I'm a greedy
American business executive, I'm 
a bad man

They have these beautiful hilly fields rain-
covered, they are descendants of the Inca
madpeople: they have

And it doesn't much matter does it
Clouds are gone,
sun's above me
If I stare at it too long
I'll go blind they say
but it's not true
I stare and I stare
twenty minutes
bright colors seek me
Red streams yellow shadows
black sparks interlocking lurking mixing
I see it now!
This is the God of the Sun!