We grow some mean gophers up here. 

Professional Courtesy

I have a tomato plant growing outside my window in a trough that is made from a piece of four inch PVC.  There is no soil in the trough, just a little bit of gravel and vermiculite.  All the water and nutrients that my little plant needs are provided by me, twice a day, by means of an old plastic milk jug.  There are some folks, I'm sure, who would derive a great deal of pleasure from having that much control over another living thing, but I personally don't like it.  I find this degree of dependence disturbing in something that (so far as I can tell) has no quantifiable interest in my continued wellbeing beyond the twice daily application of fertilizer solution, and the forcible removal of garden pests.

Now on my little tomato plant there resides a small green bug, approximately three quarters of an inch long, which makes a sound that is something of a cross between angry tree frog and drunken cricket.  So far he (for the sake of brevity) is the only one of his kind that I have spotted, and I can only assume that he was accidentally deposited here by an odd gust of wind, or a shipment of produce that was poorly inspected or something of the like.   
He apparently intends no harm to my little tomato plant, and seems content to sit there night after night, crystalline wings extended and vibrating in the moonlight, singing.  
Every night the same song issues from beneath the green leaves, and every night his long antennae and feelers comb the air, searching... 
I find myself wondering, is the angry tree frog/drunken cricket song a lure for prey, is it a way to mark territory, is he hoping to find another small green bug out there to share his song with, or is he simply singing to distract himself from his situation, to drive away the miasma that comes with prolonged solitude. 

I don't think I will kill the small green bug, though he may be drawing undue attention to my little tomato plant.  He is just one more in a sea of travelers, lost in an unfamiliar and hostile place, wondering how he got so far off course, and hoping against all better judgment that if he keeps singing his song he will find peace in the dark, hidden beneath the green leaves,  alone beneath the silvery moon.   

Premarination

The deer are eating,
my apricot tree outside,
should make them tasty.

Something smells like summer.

Todays Rant:
 
Mid July always reminds me of those advertisements I see on television pitching items with "summer fresh" or "country fresh" scent. 
 I don't know how to break it to the folks who think these things up, but summer in the country doesn't smell like lilacs, or expensive perfume, or anything like that. 
By mid July most rural areas, that is to say most of the rural areas that I have lived in, tend to smell more like sweat, and burning grass, and fire, and spilled beer, and dehydrated animal shit...
Diesel exhaust, tar, and road kill boiling in the sun...
Can't beat the summer fresh scent.   

.

Some wish that they were,
others wish that they were not,
all wish they could be.

{Click}

She makes her escape,
moving with deliberate care,
as a drunken knife juggler.

An unfamiliar stair,
clouded by thoughts of indiscretion,
the celebration of vibrant mortality.

Unexplained hesitation,
sobered with apprehension of discovery,
unnerved she fades into shadow.

In pseudo-silence,
padding back down barely lit hallways,
whispered curses punctuate the night air.

Nasal Intercourse

Water stains on faded wall paper,
slight whiff of mildew,
damp concrete,
rusting iron,
a prison without walls.

Eyes closed,
a picture without sight unfolds,
offering glimpses of another time,
another life,
another world.

The smell of old fire,
screams echoing through an otherwise silent forest,
distant touch of a far away dream,
the soft crunch of dry grass underfoot,
and a tang of copper in night air.

The buck with the split hoof,
from a distance I sense him moving,
I know his heart,
I know his desire,
I know where he will be in the morning.

Bar fly.

Alone I keep watch,
while the ones who surround me,
wet their eager lips.

A whiff of whiskey,
and stale cigar smoke passes,
into the dusk breeze.

Decay on his breath,
like mustard gas and roses,
I remain unseen.

The day passes on,
along silken strands of time,
into the evening.

Semblance of order,
and life's eternal waxing,
blinds us to decay.

The passing half moon,
hides shadows of things unseen,
Alone I keep watch...

Corner store.

Sticky.

Not the sort that comes from glue,
that comes from fresh pitch,
or gelanized sugar.
Nor is it the sort that comes from too much drink,
too much sleep,
too much of a wonderful evening,
breathing the sweet perfume of another
until reason and passion are utterly spent.

No.

Its that tackiness,
born of excessive heat and the smell of grass
slowly baking in a relentless sun.
Of refuse and carrion
simmering in the open air oven of early July.
Of tar, hot oil and exhaust.

Our great potential,
now left rotting and disused,
seeks oblivion.