Floods

"America is a special case. Of course it is not immune from domination by trees 

or the search for roots. This is evident even in the literature, in the quest for
national identity and even for a European ancestry or genealogy (Kerouac
going off in search of his ancestors). Nevertheless, everything important that
has happened or is happening takes the route of the American rhizome: the
beatniks, the underground, bands and gangs. . . (19)" Deleuze & Guatarri

  I leafed through the old tome and I took care not to crumble its withered pages as I turned them.  A dog watched me from behind a fence with a curious gaze. It said "don't leave. You can't leave." I stared back for an instant, and turned back to the tome. The woods had grown quieter and birds flew with quiet beats of their wings overhead; like they were flying away from something. Storm clouds gathered in the sky like an ominous gray council, their forms bloated and huge with their watery payloads. The whole forest, the train track, the river that flowed quietly by, all seemed to exude an aura, a warning. I could sense the coming rain as well as the dog smelled it in the air, I could feel its watery promise. I envisioned the entire valley flooded and my body, the dog's body, all the bodies floating in the deluge. I wanted the flood to wash me dry. Wash away my dreams, wash away my sins, wash away my troubles, wash the whole valley clean. Wash me to my roots. I would save this strange tome, by these Deleuze & Guatarri fellows, I felt it was the key; held the answers. It had the power to wash away the dirt, wash away the grime, wash the roots clean and expose them to light.

99 Miles Of Bad Road

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Death Mask

  The sour stench of death drafts through the humid air and hangs there like a rotten balloon. The source crunches under my feet; a raccoon skull stares its eyeless stare up at me with its death-mask, white teeth jutting from its mouth, its matted fur clinging to the bone like a sickly mold. No salt air or cool sea breeze permeates the dense wood.  The ocean was miles away.  Just stagnant lakes that sat like cesspools dripping with life - snakes, mosquitoes, gators, catfish - an almost prehistoric landscape with scaly and slippery and sucking creatures. It was as if the modern veil was torn away like a scab and all that was left was a lens into an older, more dangerous Earth. But a more exciting Earth nonetheless. An Earth with lands yet unconquered, caves to be explored, woods to raze and settle, seas to sail. A Dirty South Heart of Darkness.  
   There are no seas to sail here, just fetid lakes, brown like tea, full of tangled vine and muddy banks. And the sun, no shortage of it here, the burning orb hanging low over the tree line like the eye of some cruel fire god. Spanish moss hangs in long wisps from the cypress trees like cobwebs from skeletal fingers. The trees leer at you like they're alive, like they could move if they wanted to. Everything is flat, and wet, and hostile. You'd half expect to see Conan trudging through the murk with his axe in hand, searching for some swamp beast to slay for it's hide. He'd rule from his Oaken throne, an alligator-skin cloak draping his shoulders, a moss laurel at his head, piles of bass and bluegill to feed his tribes. A wretched raccoon skull dangles from his neck and speaks for him. It speaks of death, in death's tongue, and all who meet its dead gaze can do nothing but cry "the horror, the horror."