Canada 1.
Here it is, the happening heat. Pouring through the windows, wide blanketing beams, telling nothing but the washed out truth.
Grass, sand, leaves, feathers, build and burn. A mouse ran so fast across the driveway that its legs disappeared. Cat birds and crows cawing against the calm. A sky like this, soft and stagnant, lazy blue daubed with bleached wool, an immovable beast.
This is where the social clamps surrender, disengaged from the world, bewildered and beautiful. Out on the lawn, I am a pointless speck and everything all at once. Smells of earth, flashes of sun. The bugs are behemoths. The blades of green cut off all ties to any true sense of time.
I want to light jeopardous, gas-fueled fires. Drive like a madman beside cornfields at dusk. I want to lose my shorts swimming in a clear, deep stream. Eat sickeningly ripe fruit and let the plant plasma run all over the place, all over my face. Groaning and gloating through all our rushing stunts. I want to ride stolen horses bareback with a six-pack in my backpack. Racing, running, flying through the scenery. No one knows me, no one knows my name, no one knows anything.