Collection

Today's discomfort is penance for the crimes of yesterday and early payment for the idleness of tomorrow.

Fever Dream Redux

Today I found myself in the position of having to break up a fight (an actual fight, not a play fight... anyone who knows animals knows what I'm talking about) between a 100 lb pit-bull boxer mix and a goat of about the same size.

I only took one injure, if you could call it that. A scratch on my right leg which I didn't notice at the time.

Didn't notice it in fact till I got home and realized I really felt ill.

Actually that's wrong, I didn't notice it till I was crawling to the bathroom wondering which end was going to erupt first, with chills wracking my body so hard that he sweat was flying off my face with my convulsions. Just a scratch, but by this point really inflamed.

I dream such wonderful dreams when I'm sick, it's a wonder I'm ever not.

Of course, I can't afford a doctor, so I've cleaned and treated the leg with home remedies, and it's healing, the fever's leaving I can tell, and with it I fear the sleep and the wonderful terrible dreams, and I'll probably be better by morning.


When I was a boy, no older than nine or ten I use to walk the hills where I grew up on days when I wasn't welcome at home.

Where I grew up the city folks use to dump their animals. You know, the whole
"Who'd have ever thought that cute Rottweiler puppy would turn into a 200 pound eating machine that isn't comfortable being cooped up in a one bedroom apartment? Oh well, we'll turn him loose in the country and he'll be fine" mentality.

Anyway, we had packs of wild dogs. They would sometimes breed with the coyote's, so the were large, smart, hungry, and had no real fear of humans. They would kill cattle on occasion. They would even tree cougars until they died of dehydration.

So like I was saying I use to walk around the hills when I wasn't welcome at home. I always had a shove handle and a couple of knives one me when I did this, and on more than one occasion I had to use them, but I use to love walking the hills. In a way I even miss avoiding the meth trailers, following whatever tracks I could find, waiting to hear the telltale rustle of undergrowth, the silence of the songbirds, the alarm of the blue jay's, the chattering warnings of the squirrel's, the panting and growling of the pack as they tried to drive me into one of any score of flat open areas where they would have the advantage.

I remember one day in particular, a small group (just five of 'em) tried to corner me on a bend in this old logging road (which is now part of a small subdivision), with a steep bank on one side and a sheer road cut on the other. The were all transplants though, and once they had me cornered they weren't sure how to finish the job.

Obviously I'm still here, but it did take a bit of negotiating, and I did send most of the pack yelping off with their tails between their legs.

Now, at this point I would like to mention that I'm not into animal cruelty, I don't mis-treat them, and I tend to give them a lot more leeway and consideration than most of the people I know. Animals in my care tend to live a lot longer than most folks think they are capable of living, and they will usually remember me for years, even if they are no longer my wards. (both the dog and the goat will run up to me and greet me enthusiastically, even if they haven't seen me in several months... again, you animal people out there know what that means). Anyway, I like most animals more than most people, and on the occasions when I do kill one it is for a reason, and is a task which I complete humanely, with all due speed and accuracy.

But I will kill for food, and I will put an animal down if it is too injured to recover, and I will defend myself, and I won't take any more crap from a four legged critter than I will from a two legged critter.

Anyway, I was thinking about this while breaking up the fight between the goat and the dog.

And it's a funny thing, but I felt more alive. Almost like I was, if only for a minute or two, twenty two years younger.

And the dog and the goat and I are still friends, and we're all still (relatively) healthy. The only persistent injuries that the dog and the goat suffered were the result of their fight, not my breaking it up. The goat even waited till she was no longer in the back of my truck to relieve herself (how and why the goat was in the back of my truck are part of another, slightly related story), and the dog still runs up and trys to jump into my arms when he sees me.

And I'm sitting here in the dark, sweating out my fever, napping, dreaming about my past and my future and the end of the world, and wondering why I can outfight two angry animals with horns and teeth, but lack the ability to conquer some of my personal bullshit.

I know I'll probably read this in a week or two and not be able to understand anything.

I know anyone else reading this probably won't be able to understand anything...

Fuck-it.

I'm allowed to ramble dammit, it's just the fever talking after all.

Gotta work tomorrow, wonder if they'll notice, wonder if I'll remember...

Doubt it.

Oh well, no loss.

Thump and concussion of the old gas heater,
tinkling crystal dream disintegrates in early morning stillness,
lucidity's twisting dance,
courting madness with measured breath.

Happy Birthday Sweetie.

Lambent comely twisting dervish

spinning, dancing, lilting, wayfarer


renovator of condemned souls


disruptor of the slow decay


pilferer of atrophied hearts


bane of life's enfeeblement


stealing fire from the gods in Promethean splendour


to light the cigarette of a passing stranger.

Chimes and Buttons

.

Stop.

Turn off the lights, the music, the television, the electricity, the water, the phone. Unplug the refrigerator, the freezer, the heater, everything.

Just close your eyes and listen, just for a minute, a second, a moment.

Hear the gentle hissing of time, music of the world with it's trillions of individual parts and pieces and instruments and musicians...

Click and whir and slow inexorable hum of the universe.

A star is born, a sun burns itself out, a million beg and plead and barter their final breath away while another million squall themselves into fresh faced existence, ceaseless, relentless, sonorous and monstrous, pathetic and awesome, falling without rhyme or reason into perfect lockstep cadence.

Each puzzle piece falling into place, locking its counterparts into the greater design of a greater puzzle piece falling into place with it's contemporaries, and so on, and so forth in an ever expanding widening arc of inception and destruction encompassing the whole of cretinous creation in a single grain of colored sand in a single drawing on the packed red clay.

There is no end to the cycle. A new day dawns as the old one is extinguished. One species thrives, another drives itself to extinction. The wolves are hunted, the lambs are slaughtered, the maggots feast, the flies multiply, the great machine persists oblivious, unfazed by the beauty and horror of it's own machinations. We persist, oblivious to the horror and beauty and compassion and brutality of even the simplest of our actions, the minimal strain and relaxation of muscle that allowed you to draw that breath just now was a million years in the making, that gurgle in your intestines a few moments ago was a drastic dynamic shift in an environment so alien to the one you move through that you would not survive if you were suddenly abandoned to it.

The body wars with itself, the mind wars with the body, the bodies war with each other, the world wars with the bodies, the microbes war with everything, everything is consumed, dissolved, broken down, reconstituted, rebuilt, improved, destroyed, improved again. And on, and larger, and so forth.

And people wonder why I choose not to partake of the illicit substances.

.

Whinging on.

I can piss off almost anyone.   It's a gift.   But why is it that I can't seem to manage to piss off any good marksmen?   You know someone who can drill a quarter at 100 yards.   I mean I've pissed off plenty of armed individuals over the years, but it seems I've yet to piss off someone who can pull a good C-spine shot at range.   It's a pitty cause I sure could use the rest.