Oceans of Living Dirt

...little brightly colored frogs hop together in time across the forest floor while snakes watch with reptilian attention, eyes fixed on nothing somehow come around to intercept them striking out like the suspension on a low-rider, chains of brilliant scales scream poison to all who lack fangs themselves or pulse with warm blood, like the jaguar who calmly paces right through this scene along the earth packed solid by countless cloven hooves, the path resting hidden under a fern archway which viewed in profile reminds of old Roman aqueducts still standing, beneath their undersides pock-marked with empty spore cases the crushed dirt hemorrhages moss out from all edges like verdant vermicelli intestines while the mushrooms look on solemnly from fallen tree branches sinking within rot, if you could look closely, more closely than eyes can see, spores are sifting everywhere in the air, invisible snow with no respect for gravity, flowing by innumerable branches and past the canopy, pouring over the crooks of a many-ringed tree and ultimately mingling within the pinkish lungs of the jaguar panting, poised on a stone by one of the myriad rain forest streams of condensed mist, a rivulet he knows well for sometimes fish will swim riiiiight up near the surface where it gets a little shallower looking for fallen insect Icarii trapped in the surface tension, that is if they don't look up beyond the barrier of the water's elaborately twisting opaline surface as fish sometimes do to see his pair of polished irises observing them intently, pupils pointed daggers even when hunger's not such a problem, and the mind behind those retinas turning the grindstone that keeps eyes keen and ears swiveling about like jittery radio telescopes poaching signals from across the forest, a bit of static intercepted interprets as a tiny rustling sound from the underbrush that is most often only wind but sometimes means the approach of an unsuspecting hunk of self-propelled, stupid meat that begs not to be eaten until his cogent jaws encircle that enchanted place behind the skull and strike together to extract motion from it forever, excepting for the hiss and shudder at the exit of the lung's last involuntary decompression as its diaphragm relaxes for once in all its life, and you see the jaguar mind in its truest nature here:  fangs about the neck of a thrashing deer, but the cat's so steady his grasp doesn't falter a centimeter out of their interlocking oppositional confluence, eyes don't even pivot about to try and see what's going on, they peer out dead center a thousand yards out fixed on nothing in that instant because their view isn't important, even when a hoof kicks in near his belly the teeth just clamp down with rancid anger at nothing, holding on to survive the mind waits inside dueling with jaw muscles, action potentials shimmering down axons, cajoling muscular conjunctions to persevere, to turn this deer into something that dissolves into the cruel prutrifaction of the ground's decompositonal aggregations rather than prances with swift delicacy upon it, to convert it at last into flavors redolent with iron, ripples of peristalsis, the peace of satisfaction, a slightly distended stomach, and more time to drift among the pungently green leaves layered with dew and mist...

Camping Trip

...and we set up the tents just as the cicadas make their entrance, buzzing like some ziggurat of broken alarm clocks constructed by an overly punctual ancient civilization. As luck would have it, wayward tent poles have claimed three eyes already on this night and they stay skewered on the poles staring back at us accusingly while their owners sit around the fire wistfully recalling the benefits of binocular vision, but cautiously evaluating the admittedly flimsy consolation of finally being able to wear legitimate eye-patches. It is at this point that it occurs to everyone present to construct a harrowing tale wherein the three eyes were lost but nobody has any good ideas. Joe begins to cry, but we are not too worried since the reduced tear flow does not even require the use of a handkerchief, and we all reflect on this additional benefit. Anthony produces his drum machine from a faux-leather case (he's vegan) and break-beats wash over us as we drift to sleep.

Come dawn we discover that bobcats have stolen all the cigarettes and are lazily smoking them about the perimeter of the site, dashing in periodically to light them on the embers of the previous night's fire. Not only that, but bears have snuck in during the night while we slept to draw crude penises all over our faces with permanent markers they bought on sale from the local wal-mart. The park ranger must have noticed this already on his morning patrol, since he has already e-mailed a ticket to all our blackberries/iphones/other pretentiously named electronics. It read as follows:

Frail Things

A predisposition for frail things, wandering lanes of moths with wings larger than elephant's ears effortlessly weaving through flipping tractor tires pouring out of the mane of a misplaced sphinx, they deftly maintain their frangible forms folding and unfolding circumspectly, just as we all expected, but then their wings sling acrid pools of watery mud all over us and the sphinx is standing by awkwardly trying to make pleasant conversation while we sit down in angry silence across from each other wringing out our clothing, eyes all searching for the reddest face... the face of who forgot to tell them not to.

dynamics

thoroughly descending through the streaming petals, striding onward the branches and leaves strewn about somebody's feet flickering with the insane grace of brief cyclones against polished cliff floors and the moist refuse of deciduous rot. Someone is muttering about their worries behind the trees, but it is easy to ignore and the petals are fragments now, torn along their delicate veins, vomiting their color away before transmuting into diaphanous clouds of ash and billowing up along the tree trunks, lifting themselves to where they become something thicker than air yet less substantial than the dust collecting on an old buzzard's wingtips who has made up his mind to fly no more. cunt.

Today we take advantage of a terrible and basically immoral new technology called "Web Logging"

here goes an associative explanation semicolon dreams sort of roll out sometimes with your fingers moving and when there is a pen in hand sometimes you mess all over the nice clean paper you were saving just to hang on the wall to admire its excellent blankness, but very rarely you like the paper better that way (with the gross ink all over it, yes, I know, hard to believe) now they are here on the INTERNET to waste the precious seconds you could be using to watch youtube videos of cute babies doing foolish things.

I would really appreciate it if you did your best to never read this "blog," not even once, or to read it all the time but then suppress the memory so deep within your psyche that you wake up every morning screaming confusedly while beads of cold sweat tremble down your temples. However, comments ARE appreciated!

Deceitfully yours truly,
me