We talked the other day about poems from our childhood, so I think I will do this awesome blog-tastical petry extravaganza about some playground memores because what childhood experience will trump that?
Nothing. I answered the question for you because I can read your mind.
C:\My Documents\plaground_1996
by: David the Mathis
I pick up the stone, hovering over a mound of dirt--a suspect ant hill.
The stone is cold against my fingers, but only where the damp earth still clings to the underside;
a hole waits in the ground for the stone to return, but this isn't a puzzle piece.
The stone will not return to it--instead it craters the dirt in a new place, boiling ants over--
they spill onto the hot dirt, ready for anything except two shoes heavier than Osmium.
I imagine they must feel nothing, see nothing, know nothing because they are exoskeletons;
filled with instinct, they bite at immovable objects that are more than 100 times their own weight.
My two shoes pressed against the earth are covered in ants and ant pieces and with each jarring
thwack of shoe on hard-caked clay, I feel my shins burn as they throttle dust against the sky.
With each cloud of tissue-thin dirt, another body is borne into the heavens and I laugh.
Later, A grasshopper tumbles from the trees and lands itself on my shoulder and I take its wings,
tear them slowly from its body--first wing slides off smoothly like a greenstick fracture,
second wing catches, shucks the head with it and I drop an exoskeleton into the pine needles.
That day, I felt remorse for shedding an instinct of its exoskeleton and sat in silence on a stump.
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