I wish to dig a deep hole in the yard. It’s my property after all. Let’s see how deep I get. Maybe a few feet, maybe ten. Reinforcing timbers are needed if I go far enough. Slow and steady, sinking the spade shovel into the soft dirt and tossing it onto a gradually growing pile. Hopefully there won’t be many rocks or roots along the way. When the digging is done and the hole a suitable abyss, I’ll sit in the middle and consider what I’ve done. Does the peace equal the depth? Looking up at the rim I wonder how far underground my property extends. Certainly not all the way through the earth, but maybe there’s someone on the other side with similar thoughts and depth-digging dreams. Perhaps my property goes all the way in the upward direction— to the stars even. Going that way would require a tremendous platform or a rocket ship. Digging is much more feasible than skyscraping or space travel. Where is the line between what is mine and another’s, what is me and what is you, to what depths am I willing to go to find out? Sitting in the freshly dug hole, I claw curiously at the walls feeling the damp soil and packing it under my nails. I inhale completely and take in the newly uncovered loam. I am of this earth, even more so now from the bottom of my yard hole. Join me down here. Bring a drink and we’ll toast to earthworms and moles, our subterranean brethren. Cheers, dirtnappers!
Tree songs wailing with wavering wind gusts. Beasts, wild and urbane, relating rhythmically. Bearcats bumping. Kids colliding. Warblers … WARBLING! Meanwhile, pensive poets ponder pristine pentameter. Preposterous! Among the great gathering a tremendous squabble, rabble-rousing alongside reasoned reflecting. Over yonder a proud pile of rock, hardly rocking, not quite resonating, but still wholly riveting. Clouds coalescing, snakes slithering, stars shimmering, even misanthropes menacing. Everything spread thin through space and time, groaning. No thing, notwithstanding. Personal pleas persist— we are the liquor, the language, the lamentation and the luster. Now’s our time to beat upon the collective drum and blow the great horn. Go forth and sound your way.
gargle that sludge bucket bouillon ~
persistent grumbles, kids near lawn ~
pound bunkum into my fecund satchel ~
grab the vegetalia with salad tongs ~
piercing acumen despite weak knees ~
groundbreaking thunderdumplings! ~
piss off already, weak-ass pound cake! ~
pine nuts make our pesto mighty, punk! ~
look out, look out! —
the color of space on your face.
sun and stars, wind and moon
all-up-on your face-face-face.
overcast rainy day face
alongside hot melt-face
and icy fro-frozen face.
so much face reflecting
inner-space and outer-space.
so’s your face, so’s my face.
toast with no suitable spread?
no matching socks remain?
the cows rebel against the cheese?
the well runs dry?
nothing remains for you and I?