About me

Sunday, September 25, 2011

Metaphorical and literal

Yes, it's hard to say. Did you fall under the weight of your own ambition, or was it the weighty corpulence in the earth's gravity that took you down?


Regardless, you're down, and not just for the count. More like in perpetuity. Perhaps in your next incarnation, you might consider customer service with a cell phone company or and ISP.

The sad thing is that those standing by waiting to take your miserable place learned nothing from your fall, thinking they can surely do better. Not to worry, they'll also feed the worms very soon.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Puckered

A puckered hold in the ground? Probably even harder to know it's different from my butt.


Study this carefully. It'll come in handy one day.

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Then and now

He was an ass.


Now, he's just a hole in the ground. I doubt he knows the difference.

Saturday, July 9, 2011

Bound in a framework

Here I am.



I'm not sure who clings to whom here, or what to what, as the grammar might go. Regardless, dried and desiccated, if it were not for the rusting strands of an external framework, I'd be long gone, just as I will be when the patient rust accomplishes it's job. Until then, ants and wasps grind and tear, bit by bit, until the rust introduces what's left of my dry-rotted mass to the grubs and worms. Even the living around me shrinks, shrivels, and dies upon getting too close.

Thursday, June 9, 2011

There was a time


There was a time I stood tall and proud, greening, growing, a proper home for singing birds. That was then. What happened remains a mystery. I just woke up like this. Charred and dried. A stump with roots hanging useless above the ground. The soil around me barren save but a few struggling weeds.

I await the beast who will rub to scratch, and perhaps that will break the last root and push me to the ground where hungry insects might gather after a rain to hasten my return to the earth, my rebirth to perhaps get it right the next time.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Washed up


How the last storm left me here remains a mystery, one that I reflect on as as I desiccate in the evening sun, not even shade for the local snake, though occasional perch for a twitching lizard with blue stripes on a tail ever-poised to fall off.  A growing colony of termites find some respite in the thin cool strip where underbelly meets the ground, drawing moisture up from untold depths, likely reaching unseen the hundred yards to the gentle lap of a settled lake. The wind, the rain, and the occasional stepping foot bring a gentle change now and again, but none so strong as to alter the inexorable decay, the slow movement downward that marks the seasons, if not days, of my life. 

From another view, I look a little different.



Add some distance, perhaps a little less light or focus, and I become the crumbling maw of a lost baleen whale, the largest of the large dining on the smallest of the small, providing, in turn, another dinner on another day for the very small.