I bought a bag of air today for $5.29. The company that filled the bag was kind enough to put a few potato chips in it, too.

Ill from a severe cold or not, some work must be done in order to maintain a yard and so it doesn’t get too overgrown. With that in mind, Collier shoved the walk-behind lawn mower out the back door, filled it with unleaded gasoline and tugged six or seven times on its pull cord causing it to belch, rumble and jump alive.

By three sweeps of what would be nearly one-hundred before complete, his throat drew closed and lungs spasmed and Collier began to violently hack, gag and cough his way across the fourth cut. Unable to continue in a straight line, he stopped and returned to the house, first blowing his vastly-filled snotty-nose and then plying a mentholyptus-flavored cough drop in his mouth.

It took a few minutes for the lozenge to finally take-hold and progressively slow Collier’s cough and bring the spasms to a close. Another few minutes and he returned outside to finish the job at hand.

Back and forth he pushed the green mower, filling the bag that covered the slot through which the freshly clipped grass was flung after being beheaded by the machines sharpened blade. Soon he was more than half way done and was beginning to feel less sickly, as he had all week previously, and more accomplished.

Then it happened; a deep, bellowing, uncontrolled cough that Collier could not contain or restrain.

Automatically, his throat widened as the alveolus of his lungs expanded and he expelled a ferocious volume of air and phlegm from his body. Then as Collier’s body fell back into reverse, he sucked in an equaled volume of said air, and with it the remaining and unused portion of that once-helpful tablet and unceremoniously began to choke helplessly.

It took hours to loosen its grip from below his esophagus. No, that is wrong, it took mere ticks of the pocket watch to fly loose, as he crawled on his hands-and-knees in a near-blind panic, clawing widely through the grass, willing his brain to stay active and alert, until he could find it some general relief from the stagnate air that fed it less-and-less oxygen each time those speedy red blood cells of his vasculature presented themselves to the exchange masters, who remains standing languidly in and on his heaving chest.

Suddenly these terrible seconds came to a close and Collier vomited projectiley that most singular of objects, dislodging the throat lozenge across the yard, as he collapsed bodily to the earth. He lay there wheezing and whistling, coughing and panting, and fighting-off ever-excitable dogs, each convinced that he was face-planted in pain for their simple, but playful amusement.

Death would have been more comforting, but even he did not want Collier after the terrible, and most embarrassing shape Collier had presented himself in those early morning hours, shortly after all county noise ordinances ceased to exist. Inside of sixty-seconds, and without utterance of single cuss word, he left the lawn mower parked where it had halted its noisy business, and returned to his sheet-twisted, quilt-gnarled mattress.

Collier became acutely aware and certain that over the days and nights, Death had visited him again, coming to look in upon Collier a time or two since, and still shaking his head in total disgust of the man, as he dragged himself, flowing robe, and long, sharp scythe away, unable to bring himself to do the deed, knowing that even in a ragged state of decay, Collier would be a most sorry lot for his forever-growing collection.

When one door closes, another opens — however the hallways remain a bitch.

The pen is mightier than the sword — but action speaks louder than words.

Soul aching,
Dreaming of bucolic home,
Green grass, greener trees,
Blue sky and cotton cloud.
Only the hint of a breeze
Drifting in from a Pacific sea.

Survival mounted on brackets
and remembrances of youth:
Uncoiled and coiled rope,
Burning cow-hair stink,
Early morning chores,
Cattle lowing,
Yellow porch light,
And nighttime.

Five year hitch, the manic life
Brutal heats, pounding rains, boredom
Embrace the suck.
Countdown to a-day-and awake-up.
“Man, you is so old school.”

Names and the faces,
Men coming,
Going, going,
Gone.

Then all is gone,
To the highest bidder’s
Low ball.
Gone too is Grandpa,
Cowboy and soldier, drunk.
Burned up by shell-shock
And the fraternal alcoholic.

There would be but one horse
Left for the sacking out.
No burlap sacks and tin-cans,
No sea-bags or hand grenades.

Adapt and overcome
With nothing more than talk
To compel its needed death
Knowing it’s set to sunfish,
Stomp another half-century:
That dreaded ‘Night Hoss.’

That’s what he called it
The same steed Grand-dad rode
After the War-to-End-All-War,
So laugh and drink and toast.

It would not surprise the old man
To know his grandson
Had corralled the same reckless ride.

Out of sight, out of mind — and forever lost.

Due to technology and because we fear becoming dinosaurs, we are  becoming sheep.

Tom had done what he could to donate the heavy, electric wheelchair taking up space in his tiny garage. The first outfit had a truck, but lacked manpower and a ramp to load the beast, while the second flatly refused to pick it up.

That night, Tom dreamed that the heavy, electric wheelchair followed him everywhere, as if it were a 300-pound puppy, lost and starving.

Our talkative host, suddenly silent, rose from his chair, and fled the table towards the bathroom, leaving his gathered dinner guests bewildered. His concerned wife pursued after him.

They sat, mostly in silence, waiting.

Eventually, she returned to the table, soon followed by the husband. He held a wet washcloth to his mouth.

“He bit his tongue.”

“Is it very bad?”

“No.”

“Thank goodness.”

He remained subdued, in a sort of embarrassed muteness, for the remainder of the evening. Of course, it did not help that the conversation immediately and impolitely turned to the question — why do people bite themselves?

Early morning — not yet too hot and not too cold either. I decided to bounce my way off-road so I could get some alone time.

Once parked, I got outta my truck and wandered a few feet to the south. I was jus’ below a rise and I wanted to see what was beyond it.

Jus’ what I thought…more open desert with sage and rocks. Perfect.

As I turned to walk back to my truck, I saw a glint of metal in the dirt, so I picked it up. I had found a battered dog whistle.

Looking it over and trying to shake some of the debris caught in it, I thought about how I used to be able to hear a dog whistle. “I wonder…” I said as I placed it between my lips and gave it a hardy blast of air.

Suddenly the desert around me came to life with the yipping and baying of coyotes. Nope – I can no longer hear a dog whistle when blown, but they sure can and they were none too happy with the assumed shrill sound.