“A 24 Hour Camping Trip With Any Person You Want”
A mile away live the rich folk, sucking their spoons over pretentious plates, sucking and fucking out of boredom. Two miles away live their parents, polishing the silver they shall present as gifts, sucking and fucking in their memories. Suburbanites in motion without a poetic thought in their brains or on their hillsides. Ticky tacky little bastard boxes, useless boxes. Boxes for juice, boxes for donations and children’s garments, boxes for everything but wine, not the wine. On the other side of the proverbial tracks he sees me. He devours me. He found the nineteen year old me that I would slap should my Delorean have enough plutonium. Fuck it, get me out of here, lets go somewhere we can talk. Come on, you know you want to. This is me pitching an idea on your field. It’s a high fly ball, over the left field wall. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, it’s that reach for the stars, over the fence, world series shit again. Son of a bitch, I do believe it’s a foul ball, on account of the rules of the restrictive suburbanite dictatorship. Wouldn’t you rather sit by a fire and tell me a story?
Behind the moon and beyond the rain I would be out of his reach. My bruised ego and cracked cheek would turn to the trees to avoid his distress signals. Zoom in on the SOS in my back pocket. My remorse code has gone haywire and you don’t speak the language of a peasant such as I. Mercy not the dimwitted inexperience, I suck at life, but I make a mean s’more. Do you set the entire marshmallow aflame or do you toast properly? Maybe we would take a nap right? A nap on a pillow of blue bonnets, you know, in a blanket made of stars. Sounds pretty goddamn good to me, just you and your simple smile. Coming up next on the XM Cheese Whiz network. I’m not catching dinner for you. I’ll cook whatever your heart desires when we are back with the civilians. He used to make me cook his dinner among other things, my wifely duties serviced his ass for far too long. Next on the XM Revenge channel, angry music for the drive home. How about that story now?
Tell me what you wanted to be when you grew up. A teacher, a lawyer or maybe I peg you as a counselor of some sort. I don’t know maybe you can tell me what being a mother is like. Maternally speaking I have the instinct but lack the spawn. Tell me a story of what your back in the day was like. I wanna see the you that hides behind the facade of suburban functionality. Want another s’more?
I’ll throw another log on the fire, maybe that log will be the story of my back in the day, which was a Wednesday. Picture it. I’ll fan the flames until the dawn approaches and the dream turns to dust. I’ll throw knives at trees, you know the ones, deep in that darkness, as we ponder the symbolic chemistry brewing. Unzip the tent, I’m scared and I’m cold. I smell like shit and feet. It will be worth it, because you are. Put that in your metaphorical pipe and smoke it down. Mischief managed.