that's what i believe

i found no turban on the slopes of a mountain
in Colorado, where i went for a 1554 beer and a
ride on the chair; there was no Middle Eastern illiterate businessman
telling me he knew what was good for me when i
flew through the evergreen trees with the greatest of ease.
no holy texts or final revelations whispered in my ear trying to allay my fear
of big bumps and steeper slopes.  i easily imagined a cartoon
when i saw the face of intolerance and that face wanted poster style
to preach to me about a plagiarized religion even though my true
revelation was knowing wax helped me glide over all resistance.
the lift attendant who practiced intolerance on a friend carrying
an invalid ticket quickly allowed that friend a cushioned seat when the ticket had
been guaranteed fit and proper by a higher authority, but there was no
Heaven, no Angel whispering into any ear, and certainly no threats in the
boarding line.  this higher authority was a customer service employee without a beard.
riding to the breathless top, i saw no black granite monolith surrounded by thousands
of stone throwing zealots; no back packs were heard exploding during happy hour, but
there was a bomb throwing ski patrol technician hoping to avert an
afternoon avalanche.  and i found Chair 6 closed; E was also closed as the winds
blew in a forceful change of stormy weather, biting at my face.
the girl in a green skin-tight suit laughed about being out-of-date,
but her voice was like a momentary kiss.
when the sun eventually rode into a dusty blue sky, crowds of people stood
for hours waiting for their opportunity to be free of idols and the pulpit
where pompous strangers preached about where to ski, what line to take,
and how to use the poles.
when i eventually found Lost Boy, it was near the ski area boundary;
my gliding path on the snow was my own creation and i claim that right.
that's what i believe.