A good exercise is seeing how slow you can walk
down a country road, by that guardrail just above the creek near where the
railroad tracks crosses over on that old fucked up concrete bridge where all
the concrete is falling off the rebar, and it’s probably not safe but nobody’s
going to fix it because the state doesn’t care nor does the railroad company.
But that spot is so dope because nobody cares, and the kudzu is creeping up along
the guardrail and mostly goes under it but at a few spots, bold ass kudzu vines
are like, “Fuck it, I’m going over the top” so it does, like an ocean wave
cresting in whitecap. I love to walk through there, really slow, I mean super
fucking slow, so that the kudzu thinks it can catch me where the kudzu is bold
and goes overtop the guardrail. And I’m walking, super slow motion slow, and
the kudzu is like “oh shit, we’re gonna grow onto this dude, let’s do it!” And
the kudzu takes a shot at it, but I’m just barely walking too fast for it to
catch my shoulder. And then it’s reached too far over the guardrail, almost to
the road, so somebody complains and they come and spray shit on it or cut it or
whatever the state does when people complain and they have paperwork to fill
out to pretend they give a fuck.
I hope one day in our next era of existence which
is negatively called “post-Apocalyptic” but I prefer to call pre-re-genesis, to
have a giant herd of goats, and I slowly walk them down the road to the kudzu,
and I just sit there writing poetry while they eat up kudzu, and whatever
pre-re-genesis state has replaced the failed one we currently lives in cuts me
vouchers by the acre of cleared kudzu, which I trade for psychedelics, and
whole chickens, and hopefully one day some 100-spoke gold Daytons for my riding
mower.
I don’t actually have a riding mower, but the rest
of this is all too real.
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