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It is just like man’s vanity and impertinence to call an animal dumb because it is dumb to his dull perceptions. —Mark Twain
There were signs, signs that were slow as sap, that amber lava that swallows up a disease-kissed evergreen. Slow as a rattlesnake as it bleeds toward you, painting the grass with belly scales. But sometimes you only see the signs once you’re on the highest branch of realization.
Things grow heartily in our state of Washington: emerald moss, honey crisp apples, sweet cherries, big dreams, caffeine addiction, and acute passive aggression.
He forgot a few appointments, then his wallet, and even his house keys, which he blamed me for because he thinks I’m a “giant klepto.” Hey, I’m just a fella who likes to build on his hidden collections.
The netherworld, wherever that is—Portland?
Only horses were there. Some breathing. Some inside out.
uhhhhhhhhhh?
Once, she actually managed to escape her Walker captors and Butler put pictures up of her everywhere followed by signs like this $$$$$ and many, many, many of these 000000000. She was found within a half hour.
the birds are delivering information through melodic verse, releasing intricate notes much like how the trees whisper their slow secrets into the wind on the wings of leaves. A torrent of warnings, stories, adages, poems, threats, how-tos, real estate info, survival tips and non sequitur jokes are available for those who tap in. Everything talks, you just have to be willing to listen.
It was as if a Sunday morning had flown in and made a permanent nest.
Inquisitiveness grabbed me by the beak and wouldn’t let go—if you think cats are curious, try being an enlightened crow.
Big Jim claims to be a deeply religious man, maintaining that his religion is primarily whiskey and women. I saw the connection between the two—most of his relationships were on the rocks.
turd waffle of a wife
a giant troupe of swamp donkeys.
elitist toot cabbages.
The thought made me nauseous, gave me goose bumps, which is a stupid expression because geese are a crass bunch of douche McGoos.
But I have always known them to be a lower life-form, no better than slug-tongued, alopecia-stricken bears with epically shitty balance. They are eggs on legs with no discernible senses and the reflexes of a bugle stuffed with brine shrimp.
never to be fully trusted. For a while, I persisted with this ill-fated relationship by bringing them mice, moles, rats, sparrows, finches, robins, wrens, and chickadees, and something new and exciting: a tuxedo-wearing bastard that called itself a Humboldt penguin before I assassinated it.
A whole ass penguins!?
those dildo-nosed potatoes.
Call me naive or a coward and I’ll show you a crow who is here to tell you the goddamned story.
“Fuck off, you douche flute!”
“Enough!” screamed someone with the voice of God, or James Earl Jones.
breathing in some of the tension. Trees are known peace-keepers, though not very good with secrets.
ass trumpets.”
Butterflies live short lives because they have mastered the art of living. They serve to pass it on with luminous bursts of joy, bright flickers from the other side.
crow-bumps forming on my skin.
(technically crows don’t have dicks, but that doesn’t make me less of a dude).
trans rights
Destructive things that make destructive ends.”
I feel . . .” I thought of Dennis and his dark depression. “Where I come from we call what you’re feeling The Black Tide. It will pass. Tides, by their nature, come and go.”
“You know so much, Onida.” “I have nine brains—which never stop growing—three hearts, and I can regenerate my arms; but mostly, it’s because I’m female.”
“The light of heart is free to fly.”
seemed that being female meant to be prey, even among your own species.
That’s where trees really talk, where they share their legacy through the elements, whispering through water, negotiating in nitrogen, prophesying in phosphorus”—I’m
(Small fact for you here: the rough translation of “zoo” in bird twitter is “creature quilt” because that’s what it looks like from above, a blanket made up of species-separated enclosures.)
poop terrorists.
Fucking newspaper-colored, ice-balled dick goblins,
Listen; life is worth a fight. Expectation must be shed like winter leaves. Even in death, there is wondrous beauty. And death is not The End.
The forest is where all secrets are kept under lock and key, deep in soils dark and rich. The woods are where the truth lives, etched into the veins of leaves and the prismatic skin of a dewdrop.
If you are alive—whether of blood or bark—you will be struck by pain, love, longing, fear, anger, and the particular ache of sadness. There will be joys that quiver your leaves and betrayals that will sever your roots, poisoning the water you pull. These are the varying notes in the music of living. Look up, to close your eyes is to stagnate. To rot and stop the song.
talking to one another and dreaming of your success. Sorcery is everywhere, in the silver stroll of a slug and lighting up the very veins of you. Open those beautiful eyes to a world who is a mo...
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bollock Jedis
lentil-brained ass noodles.
I was one color but not one thing.
crumble-cheese turd burgers.
Silence. You could have heard a dust mite queef in there.
107 had a door, but it had gone several rounds with the machete that lay on its doormat.
is this door made of cardboard
a winged Mr. Magoo.
winged Mr. Magoo.
Nubbins is a rescue donkey with a mind like melted haggis. Surely destined to be a wee glue pot.
that scabby wee fart lozenge.
sky-squatting, bitch-beaked
