damp pine needles float to the forest floor
coating it like dry angel hair pasta
breezes off the lake funnel through the scrub pine
settling in on unsuspecting ferns
a low afternoon sun peeks out of the clouds
making but a cameo appearance before snuffing out behind the foothills.
caked Georgia clay starts to flake off weary boots
as they stand at an inverted attention alongside my faded wet canoe sneaks.
Pockets of flesh on the backside of my upper thigh poke through
the large webbing of the hammock reminding me
that I have rested too long and need to upgrade my bedding.
Torn between recording my experience and living more of it.
I compromise by reaching for a dented can floating in an ice water bath
tainted with specks of red soil, pull tabs, and a dead spider.
'Have a beer and wake up', I recall his devilish shout
Bologna slices cut like hazardous waste symbols curl up
and start to blacken around the edges.
My beer can stove is working better than I expected.
Two heels of bread and an ancient package of mustard rescued
from the glove box patiently await their meat reward.
The stub of a swisher sweet, the kind with the wooden tip,
polishes off my man meal as I kick back and contemplate my navel.
The evening breeze kicks up the coals of my dinner fire
tossing grey ash and tiny orange embers onto the empty Wonderbread bag.
Despite wallowing in my manhood, I feel compelled to clean up immediately
so that my own filth doesn't detract from the overall experience.
As the waves of cricket flirtation ebb and flow around the lake
frogs chime in to stake their claim on the nighttime line up.
My fire cracks and pops from the wet, rotten wood
that was so easily found below the flood line on a damp September day.
I crack another PBR on the way to my piss tree
a habit from my concert going days.
only thing worse than waiting in line for a civic center sink
is doing so without a beverage.
As steam rises from the matte tangle of poison ivy, pine needles, and corp of engineer saplings
I realize that I have pissed away another day in the woods without a thing to show for it.
It also occurs to me that I can't wait to do it again tomorrow.
(excerpt from upcoming collection of stories from the pontificator at large, b2)
read more at b2publishing.blogspot.com