My balls are bruised from the tremendous riding; straddling the leather saddle with weathered denim jeans and chaps. I have ridden two hundred miles today. I am at least – not the horse.
How persuadable must the Equidae be? I mean really; what does the horse get out of its relationship with human? What is the advantage of being domesticated? Always pastures? What made the horse submissive to the first taming? Was it a trade? Aware of its own stupidity and peaceful nature; did the horse know that man would hunt and eat it? Did it then decide to assist in the hunt instead of be the hunted?
I was thinking all kinds of crazy shit out there on the road. The road – huh! – You can barely see it with all of the grass and the fallen tree limbs. I guess we may as well call it The Way – cause you either know it or you don’t. Jesus I’ve been in this cabin too long. I have called this cabin home for five and half years and am ready to leave.
I tie the horse up. I go to the well. I pump water. I fill the trough. The other horses are thirsty too. I have been gone a long time. I drink from the well as well, for I am thirsty. I drink last because I know that I am not going to die, and I have been known to ride a horse to its death.
I go inside and see my family is sitting exactly where I left them; wife, mother and child, all covered in spider webs and dust. I am glad the stink has finally gone. It was a difficult winter. I had to keep the house warm and the larger predators at bay. I ate a lot of fox and wolf that year. I am strong as the devil this year. The bugs were difficult though, that year – even in winter, an explosion of maggots from their eye-sockets and mouths.
My family was tortured and killed by Indians, or rather Native Americans; or rather that’s what the U.S. Military wants me to think. I know it was them. I know I can not wage war on any military, and especially not those heartless bastards. During the War of The Aggression I listened to their messages and fought along side of them. I tried not to, but I killed many men. I simply cannot stand by and let someone charge at me with a bayonet. It is important to know one’s boundaries. I was trained in hand to hand combat by the Confederate Army and offer no apologies for my war crimes.
I do not miss my family. I used to. I no longer feel attachment. I have grieved an appropriate amount of time; maybe not the appropriately way, but then I am my own man. I wanted to watch them decompose. I wanted to stay with their lifeless shells and watch their matter wither. I accepted the stink and the melting of their flesh and blood, their tissue and gelatin, but along with their hideous garments of rotting skin dripping and falling off of their skeletons went too my feelings for them. Love is not eternal. Nothing is.
I light a fire in the stove. It will take a while to heat up. I remove the salt pork and the beans and the cornmeal from my saddlebags. I have time while the water is heating. I clean my guns and sharpen my blades. I spit on the axe grind and love the sparks that shoot into the air and fall upon my scalp. I decide that this is my last night in the house.
I retrieve three books from the desk; The Holy Bible, The American Dictionary of the English Language, and Systema Naturae by Swedish botanist Carolus Linnaeus illustrated by a group of artists at Cambridge Massachusetts. I plan on growing and cultivating the food I eat. I pack my saddlebags for the morrow minus the coffee and salt pork of course. I plan on eating a healthy and lively breakfast.
I fart a lot after dinner and play my harmonica. I roll a cigarette. The grocer in town sells his own brand of rolling tobacco which is by far the best blend that can be smoked. He said there was something in it called marijuana and it was his secret ingredient. I trust him. He sells me a bubbly sugar drink that once drunk produces an orgasmic effect in the whole body and lasts an hour and is worth the fifty cent gold piece he charges for it.
I close my eyes for sleep and a half of a second later I wake up with the sunrise. I cook the bacon and make the coffee. I let the rest of the cornbread soak in the fatback grease. I relish the consumption. I drink more coffee then I ever have in my life and get so wired I almost piss myself. I am giddy with joy. Today is the beginning. I pack the salt-pork, the coffee and the three books up in the saddlebags and sling them over my second best horse. I will ride him today. I will also take my favorite and my third favorite horse. They will trail behind us. I will use them for currency. I only own four horses. The fourth is just going to have to keep up if he can, or stay behind if he wants.
I set my house on fire. I watch it only until it is engulfed in flames. I have no interest in watching it burn. That part of my life is over. I giddy-up to the unknown.
We cover forty miles before we have to stop. To my surprise the fourth horse is still with us. He is an old stud, the father of two of the horses, and the uncle of the other one. I think he has something to prove more then he wants to rest his power. He was a great stud.
I shit in the woods like a bear and discover I am being watched by the Natives. There are many of them and they seem to be warriors, made up and fully armed with spear, bow and arrow, and rifles for the ones who had killed the white men and stolen their terrible weapon.
I am held captive. The chief wants to know what my purpose is in their territory. I explain that I am a wanderer, a drifter, that I belong to no clan, and have no agenda. There is a council meeting. They decide to test me. I am made to eat a type of mushroom soup.
I begin to hallucinate. The chief asks me what I see. I tell him an ecstatic blue energy that activates matter and elucidates mind. He asks me if I can dance and I tell him I already am. He laughs. I don’t. I am in a terrible transcendental vacuum. Waves of energy and euphoria are washing over me in sickening pleasure. I vomit. I am told that is common. I sit by the fire and listen to Wolf tell me his story, Bear tell me his then Fox, Otter, Rabbit and Rat. Each orator is the animal itself. Rat has a tiny squeaky voice. Fox’s is sly and easy like a barista or a Madame.
I come down and wake up around sun-rise. The chief welcomes me into the tribe, and looking up at the glorious and vibrant clouds at sunrise – names me Pink Fire. I am proud of the name. I am glory at sunrise. I am greeted by every member of the tribe. I can tell those who are excited, those who are skeptical and those who are interested sexually. I have hunger. I look them all in the eye and bow. I don’t know why I bow. I want to show to them my submissive thanks for the great acceptance of me.
I don’t belong here.
Their language is simple and riddled with mythological significance. I no longer care about the prancing stork or the lustful alligator or the dreaming winter bear – the immortal tortoise or the god mountain.
I am not capable of a peaceful life. I have lost too much. I seek too much. I seek a brand new solitude. I want to absorb myself and shit ruby poetry of godless gold. I don’t know what that means. I have changed some, since the mushroom soup. I have been given a special new wisdom, or so I believe – and this guides my activity.
I tell the chief goodbye. He asks me what I expect to find in the unknown. I tell him the future known. He gives me a magical talisman that I wear around my neck. His son is happy to see me go. I am aware of this, yet wish him well. He does not smile to me. I smile uncontrollably.
I do not say goodbye to the rest of the clan. I ride off in the direction of the sunrise because I am a new type of hero. I seek the source, not in the form of the womb, but the form of the new culture, the new government, the new land that is
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