Oh, My Precious Meadow

Miles from any dot on any map, I begin.  Car parked on turnout bluff.

A precious mist to be inhaled in increments.

3-mile hike. 1-mile crawl through wicked thornbristles.  Slide downhill on

Ass.  Swim over Bastard Canyon’s knowabout currents: shear not shorn cliff-

Side rocky climb to lung bursting altitudes.

Shoe leather ripped on stone machetes.  Hands dried and stretched tight with

Sweat, blood, and dirt.  Climbing & traversing the only mandates.  The clarion

Call of the day is Stop and Die.  It’s tough.  It hurts.  But that kind of freedom is worth the struggle. 

The city lies flat behind me, soiled, caustically phosphorous.

Solemn and well-earned leisurely stroll to enormous pasture lifts the spirits.

Meadow of perfection; fresh, bursting with spring seed and silent white

Vegetative sprouts.  I sigh, an ancient exhalation.

5000 acres of virgin solitude, golden grass, micro forests nearing ethereal orgasm,

And some man…some M. A. N. stands on the other meadow-side.

He stands, uniquely, upon the opposing canyon of my exploratory sin.

A human pillar of much disgust, he stands on my space, falsifying every step

And breath it took to bring me here.

And not only that, the son of a bitch has the soul slapping gall to wave hello to me from across the golden grasses.

This is how hunting accidents occur.

I strip naked and whip myself like a bad horse with my car keys.  He stares

For a minute, then leaves, disappears over the other hill.  I keep his original

Smile as a reminder.

But son of a bitch—a day later

I catch him grinning in my waterfall.