Tick Bomb
A poem
Tripping off-trail through lilac fields, rattlesnakes, gleaming poison oak, we blunder into a tick bomb, a dense cluster of bad thoughts, which seek out boggy pockets in our brains, those warm and secret places just beyond frantic, primate reach. "We could cleanse them of disease like Western Fence Lizards if we’d just stop screaming!” I tell Dayn, but he thrashes about in a dry creek, grunting, weeping, scrubbing his skin raw in its wash basin of dirt. Needle-edged oak leaves tattoo grim messages from the future on his bare chest, but I don't believe he's capable of suicide. “Not all lions in these mountains wear GPS collars,” I say, lighting a Camel backwards and smoking straight acetate filter. “But there is excellent data associated with the deaths of those cats which do.” And at that we laugh and cry and laugh and cry and claw at all the crawling ticks until the sun falls like a stone into the ocean below us.



feels just like walking through this life ... them ticks are everywhere ... are some are in power ...
Jesus save ...
Next thing you know they’ll let Lone Star ticks east of highway one. Gonzo man!