(no subject)
A tree is waiting for me as I wander down a muddy path, I feel simultaneously useless and lucid. Like a baby. When I find it I can't decide whether its worth climbing or walking on. Finally I decide because a book is also waiting for me. And the ground is wet and I hardly ever read standing up. Perched there seems awfully poetic. Sickeningly so. As the river rushes below my feet and sit with my boots dangling trying to gather enough focus to read. Poetry has ruined this moment for me. Its too cliche. The girl in the tree with her book. All those damned poets waxing the same lines to death. Eventually I allow myself to settle and stop worrying. I am absorbed. Jack Kerouac is writing about fucking some "dame" named Ruth for the first time. He is her belly full of wheat. I hate how the author is such a genius and all at once such a bastard. A sad bastard scared to death of women.
I look down and there is a beautiful crane. Or heron. I can never tell which is which. Its so close delicately dipping its impossibly skinny feet into the frigid rushing water. Don't make a sound! She either doesn't know I am there or is allowing me to watch. Pretty little thing. I wonder how she stays so white with the muddy contaminated river surrounding her. A page in my book goes swish! And shes off.
Reading once more but the light is growing dim. And I hear the mean laughter of boys in the background. Panic clutches me like a needy bitch. So easy to arouse. I realize my vulnerable position in the tree, however poetic it is or is not. I jump down and I am off. A nervous crane. A scared animal.
I am walking the path alone. The trees smell like a library. The library smells like trees. Dead trees and a mountain of useless knowledge.
I look down and there is a beautiful crane. Or heron. I can never tell which is which. Its so close delicately dipping its impossibly skinny feet into the frigid rushing water. Don't make a sound! She either doesn't know I am there or is allowing me to watch. Pretty little thing. I wonder how she stays so white with the muddy contaminated river surrounding her. A page in my book goes swish! And shes off.
Reading once more but the light is growing dim. And I hear the mean laughter of boys in the background. Panic clutches me like a needy bitch. So easy to arouse. I realize my vulnerable position in the tree, however poetic it is or is not. I jump down and I am off. A nervous crane. A scared animal.
I am walking the path alone. The trees smell like a library. The library smells like trees. Dead trees and a mountain of useless knowledge.