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Oct 26, 2007

October 26th, 2007

The deciduous trees across the land will soon stand naked and exposed to the cold, harsh climate of a Wisconsin winter. Half of the foliage has fallen to the ground, discarded like crumpled pieces of paper; on each one a poem has been written.

Quiet your eyes and listen for this city slinking deeper into a greater depression. Yesterday, two blocks away from where the old man was shot a few weeks ago, another shooting. Another victim survives, only this gentleman seems to have brought the violence on himself; he won't cooperate with police, and has changed his story several times.

When I was a young boy my friends and I would piss on anthills, for none other reason than to amuse our young minds. Piss, and move on, so sudden in our actions to destroy something created within the domain of the natural world.

And the cohabitation we once had in this city, just over five years ago having been voted one of the best places to raise a family by a prominent, national magazine. This city will never again see themselves amongst those rankings. Too many people are pissing on the idea of peace, on the idea of doing the right thing.

When you put a bullet through someone else, scratch that, when you enact any sort of violence on another human being, whether random or targeted, it also puts a bullet straight through the psyche of that whole community. And my psyche is tired.

Kill, or be killed? Never do I wish to be put into that situation. I could kill. I would die trying. I'd rip out a man's esophagus, vomit, then walk for as long as my legs would carry me. I will retire to a remote place, away from a connected civilization if it must be so, retired to a more natural order where humans won't act like rabid animals.

Where life, once again, becomes enchanting.

Oct 25, 2007

October 25th, 2007

Welcome on home weary traveler
You took the less walked road, and you're breathing,
you're still moving.

You've come a million miles just to be here,
to be a stranger here,
within this dark dominion of worms.

Peace, it is on your mind;
And you hope that you're on to something.
Hope ain't always too kind,
Still you hope that you're on to something.

Oct 16, 2007

October 16th, 2007

Fog, rain, and utter blackness. White road lines blur into random splotches of paint. No thunder, no illumination, just the swish of tires cutting through puddles. The sun has yet another hour before crowning on the horizon, bearing the gift of morning. For now, just a simple, wet dark.

My rubber tires crush the substance from the slimy creatures that have ventured out from the water-logged earth, the rain finishes the task by washing them into dirt. And I travel on, within this dank dominion of worms.

Oct 15, 2007

October 15th, 2007

Today, the wind subsides. A mild, fall day, soggy and overcast. The scent of earthen rot. This field before me, plowed one-hundred times over. The cigarette in my hand, the one I've smoked thousands of times over. The sky, and its hue; tomorrow's hue, yesterday's hue, and the substance inside it which one must wonder whether or not matters, for even a thousand photographs from one thousand days may not betray its secrets. Smug, lit up by the sun, wearing that same grin day after day, month after month, year after year. Stubborn things like the sun, and attitudes, do not change enough within one lifetime.

And for the effort of reading every word, for watching each blade of grass grow, fatigue. Find some shade underneath a tree for a few moments, or years. Changing seasons will relieve the tree of its foliage, take from the travel-weary the comfort of shade. Henceforth, as we were born of it, so shall the earth return and claim its own. Every worm, every root, every man, back into the soil.

Just now I've crushed a fly with my bare hand; there's a small colony of them gathered inside my apartment. It is that time of year, where the survivalists amongst the species move indoors, try to ward off winter's chill for just a few extra weeks. The strike does not kill it, only, immobilizes the fly's right side. Suddenly I feel bad for what I've done. Trying to walk, it only moves in a small circle. It steadies, squares up against the ground, then stills. Only a foolish hope hangs around long enough to wish for it to take flight once more.

Oct 11, 2007

October 11th, 2007

An angry wind tries to wrestle my car from between the white lines, tries to pull it clean off the highway. I can gnash my teeth and scream in the face of it, to no avail. Not much sense in fighting against nature.

There are more than fifteen different entries for nature in the dictionary. My favorite deals with the "natural world without humans or civilization." I wonder how much this natural world has been affected by our presence; then again, that's a bit of a moot idea since if there are no people, then really, there is no world to be enjoyed. One of them tree-falling-in-the-middle-of-the-forest kind of philosophies. And I won't subscribe, one way or the other.

Oct 3, 2007

October 2nd, 2007

A pair of red squirrels forage amongst the dew-laden grass in the park, just ahead of where I sit in the car. They seem much larger than the red squirrels I am used to seeing back in Wisco. In fact, their fur is more of a cautious blend between grey and orange. Yes, grey, with orange highlights. Maybe they are not red squirrels after all.

I wonder how they view this world around them. The constant buzzing of tires along concrete. The dull whir of accelerating car engines. Maybe they no longer notice. They must not leave this park often, for accompanying that feat of actually crossing the road is the near-certain prospect of sudden death. You don't slow down for animals here. No matter how large or small the critter, no matter how avoidable. Their carcasses litter the road like discarded, shredded McDonald's bags.

Not far from where I sit, a man was struck by a car and killed during the evening hours, just three days ago. The papers said they still do not know his name.

No one has come forward to claim him. Maybe there simply is no one to know the he has gone missing. Maybe nobody misses him. Suddenly I want to hold my own vigil. No man should live in a city too busy to hear his whispered name.

I slow down for squirrels. Here though, I don't have to. I've never seen one try to cross, but only the leftovers from failed attempts. It seems that here they've effectively fenced the wildlife in, without having to build vertical; only, these intersecting concrete lines and the two ton bullets that fly along their path with no regard for much save for the clock get the job done.

I will miss my exit off the interstate, rather than cut someone off. I try to smile when someone in their frenzied world makes a maneuver that puts my life in jeopardy. And I will always stop for squirrels. Life's too short to live otherwise.