May 2015
My heart beats wildly in my chest,
Danny seems unafraid, unfazed at
the thought of getting caught.
Snow crunches underfoot as we walk
toward the rusted hanging chain,
“do not enter” like a lone tooth
hung in the middle of a sinister smile.
The sky is clear with lots of stars,
my breath trails upward into
bare limbed trees…a breeze blows,
frozen branches click and clack as
Danny moves quickly with the crowbar,
the chain is locked, but he doesn’t notice,
he slides the crowbar through the eye
of the large bolt and after 10 or 12 spins
the chain falls to the ground with the
padlock still attached.
Jimmy drives the Impala across the chain
and Danny re-attaches the chain,
we all climb in and coast slowly from
the main road with only the Impala's
parking lights to lead the way.
We are headed into the deepest
part of the forest. It is after midnight
and we ride in silence, Jimmy driving,
Danny in front, Jeff and I in the back.
After a few miles we begin to relax,
we are far enough from the main road
to avoid detection. The forest Rangers
never leave the main roads in February.
Danny pulls the tab on a can of warm
Old Style beer, takes a swig and sets it down.
He opens the glove box and pulls out
the water pipe, which I can smell immediately.
A sweetly pungent aroma, he pours
the remainder of the beer into the ****,
packs the bowl with some extra sticky hash,
and lights a flame…
A little while later, 5 minutes? 2 hours?
Jimmy laughs his shrieking high spirited
girly girl laugh while re-telling the story
of Steph vomiting in the back seat of
his dad’s LTD, crushed red velvet seats
smeared with Cheetohs and Boones Farm
Tickle Pink, he told his dad he stopped
to render aid to a dog who had been hit,
and the dog died in the back seat while
he was speeding to the animal hospital.
“But why does it smell like ***** Jimmy?”
His dad naively asked,
“It must have been a homeless dog”
Jimmy replied,
and the laughter takes another leap,
hits a higher level, hysterical,
maniacal ..
There seems to be a correlation
between the seasons and my mania.
It doesn’t take much to get me there,
back inside a relished moment brought
into view by the changing of the weather,
the Winter sound of crunching snow,
my breath in the night sky,
the smell of the woods In February.
Spring brings different events,
Summer different places,
different friends and
different years, while the Fall
gives more of the same but
also more than the rest.
There’s something about its death,
the smell of the fall and the dying
that hits me most of all.
Its all entwined tightly In the grip of my
ever present demon and the plethora
of usual ******* he parades through
my mind,
but not today.
Today he made me smile.
Tomorrow he won’t.
Danny seems unafraid, unfazed at
the thought of getting caught.
Snow crunches underfoot as we walk
toward the rusted hanging chain,
“do not enter” like a lone tooth
hung in the middle of a sinister smile.
The sky is clear with lots of stars,
my breath trails upward into
bare limbed trees…a breeze blows,
frozen branches click and clack as
Danny moves quickly with the crowbar,
the chain is locked, but he doesn’t notice,
he slides the crowbar through the eye
of the large bolt and after 10 or 12 spins
the chain falls to the ground with the
padlock still attached.
Jimmy drives the Impala across the chain
and Danny re-attaches the chain,
we all climb in and coast slowly from
the main road with only the Impala's
parking lights to lead the way.
We are headed into the deepest
part of the forest. It is after midnight
and we ride in silence, Jimmy driving,
Danny in front, Jeff and I in the back.
After a few miles we begin to relax,
we are far enough from the main road
to avoid detection. The forest Rangers
never leave the main roads in February.
Danny pulls the tab on a can of warm
Old Style beer, takes a swig and sets it down.
He opens the glove box and pulls out
the water pipe, which I can smell immediately.
A sweetly pungent aroma, he pours
the remainder of the beer into the ****,
packs the bowl with some extra sticky hash,
and lights a flame…
A little while later, 5 minutes? 2 hours?
Jimmy laughs his shrieking high spirited
girly girl laugh while re-telling the story
of Steph vomiting in the back seat of
his dad’s LTD, crushed red velvet seats
smeared with Cheetohs and Boones Farm
Tickle Pink, he told his dad he stopped
to render aid to a dog who had been hit,
and the dog died in the back seat while
he was speeding to the animal hospital.
“But why does it smell like ***** Jimmy?”
His dad naively asked,
“It must have been a homeless dog”
Jimmy replied,
and the laughter takes another leap,
hits a higher level, hysterical,
maniacal ..
There seems to be a correlation
between the seasons and my mania.
It doesn’t take much to get me there,
back inside a relished moment brought
into view by the changing of the weather,
the Winter sound of crunching snow,
my breath in the night sky,
the smell of the woods In February.
Spring brings different events,
Summer different places,
different friends and
different years, while the Fall
gives more of the same but
also more than the rest.
There’s something about its death,
the smell of the fall and the dying
that hits me most of all.
Its all entwined tightly In the grip of my
ever present demon and the plethora
of usual ******* he parades through
my mind,
but not today.
Today he made me smile.
Tomorrow he won’t.
