I count trees, on that level
beneath where I think.
When we walk in the woods,
I should have led with,
but I am outside of time
as I transcribe my
parody of satire.
I wear darts or layers,
Summer Fall Winter it doesn't
bring relevance to the table to
denote how moods
lose their guide.
I can't people without people,
and my way is easily lost,
whether I count trees or not.
I admire the Montana man who had a
Go Bag in his car for a family outing
and his family lived through a disaster in
the frozen wilderness and my wife and I agreed
that would be me if I were dumb enough to flip
my car over and so even in my praise I am arrogant
enough to forgive my own endless mistakes
but in reality I am really realistic and I am
tense and pre-panicked at the thought of all upcoming
tasks which I know bring danger or challenge
and like hiding in the closet when the crackhead broke
into the house that he used to live in, but that I currently was
(So he was considered a burglar or junkie Yegg by the fuzz)
and I defended my life,
I was stalwart but pathetic and I lived in drawing blood,
a memory which isn't that interesting but I tell it still
although I'm bored because I wasn't brave or true, I was
scared until my pants were soiled, so I can't wave my own flag at that
and so I don't often tell that story. My point was, I still do that -
many things terrify me and I have to do them anyway and I don't shirk -
I know something will kill me. Something will end my story.
But not THIS. And definitely not THAT. So, I do it.
Last week I realized (I am smart but stupid slow) that I have changed
in the intervening years of driving on bad roads with bad cars in bad weather:
I drive terror around in poor access every day, and so controlling a
Detroit missile on paved roads, even with frozen water on them, is
not even a partial thought of a partial challenge. Life is easy, really. The part
that makes it hard is my own head making anthills bigger than they are.
I saw a video the other day, a "science" thing that had some guy pouring
molten aluminum into a fire ant mound, and then digging it out, and it made
this lovely, crystalline sort of metal sculpture, the molten metal followed every tunnel and crevice and it was lovely, but all that occurred to me was "nobody likes being bitten by fire ants, but what the fuck? We just watched a video of an absolutely dismissive genocide. The ant colony was deemed so irrelevant it was a thousand times more cruel than a kid with a magnifying glass, toasting ants in the Summer sun, this was a deliberate,
planned slaughter of an entire city just to make a video for YouTube." I thought something along those lines. And I fucking hate fire ants. Bugs don't bother me, mostly, I am lucky to have anti-insect pheromones, or something, except for ants. Ants bite me, and my skin reacts. But I still wouldn't murder without reason.
Now, if they were crackhead ants, attacking me in my house (that used to be his), then I could stab them with hot aluminum knives, and I'd feel not as bad.
Anyway. I lost my poetic rhyme and reason.