So many strange individuals around here, products of elaborate crossbreeding, subjects of endless experimentation, self-implemented in the best of cases it seems. I try to count the sins on my fingertips but I run out of appendages, the same result when I try to count the lessons, or themes, or instances of beauty.
Then that feeling wells up inside me, the one that has me stalking through the woods at night like an animal, shitting in a hole by the wayside, pissing into a river that rolls and hums, clutching an axe in two white-knuckled fists looking for something old to destroy. The swings come one after another—exhale as I bring the blade down into the wood, feel the vibrations running up my arm, inhale as I bring the shaft up over one shoulder, the tarnished steel catching the moonlight—the breathing exercises of physical meditation, while the mind ceases to stumble for a glorious moment just to take in the spectacle. Veins bulge, muscles tighten, eyes are clenched wide in their sockets. I can still smell the shit.
When the tree topples, a wave subtler and deeper than an orgasm rises, crashes, and falls deathly silent.
The impulse could be one of frustration, but more likely it is the search for a vehicle through which the profound may rumble its way into the pedestrian. The insanity of repetition finds purpose in these labored strokes. Exertion for the sake of exertion. Is there some exchange here that escapes me? Energy into motion, motion into destruction, external destruction into internal peace that will only last until the irritation of mosquito bites starts catching up to me.
Take my blood, you scoundrels. I had no idea what to do with it.