WORLD WIDE WEEDS

Lord rin-tin-tin trundles off. Round midnight, and he's sailing over the cityscape, surprising angels. He was a fiddler on the roof once, accidentally kicked over something glass, what? Cinderella finding her voice, and it was a scream! Whether to laugh or cry, the salient question would bring tears, maybe laughter. Not a dry eye. The question -- would it be better to sling back the arrows of outrageous fate?

Rat-a-tat-tat. Don't look back. It's just my steam calliope taking the chill off. Take the A Train, call me in the morning, we'll discuss it. And several other things that can wait.

There's nothing finer than a ruby diner. Thelonious would approve.

At last it's quiet. Several red house chickens have have called at my door step. They have led a terrified turkey to safety. They're not saying much. It's been more than a million years, way before any possible recollection in the range of any bird, or stuffing of any sort. The A Train people, glancing out windows, history flying by, megatons of magazines on the rack at the station, not even a mumble clucking.

We know how oft they are to gather round and scratch at scattered seed, that sort of fowl mumbling. But none of that. The lot of them are acting like just a bunch of turkeys without wattles.

Muse, what is this?

Here in hinterland are words that entered innocently, yet emerge subtly deformed. Not that there's anything very noticeable at first. Spieling at the zoo, another country for the giraffe that got captured, suddenly you are interesting. The affinity seems previous to the encounter, somehow coming back to haunt. Some words pretend a hoot owl, looking for a pun with eagle eyes. Some mimic a babbling brook, and chuckle at any further meaning. I share with Webster's dictionary, reading etymologies like detective stories, and wander away with parts of the Venn diagram that do not match. There are songs that spring from nowhere: “Venn Johnny comes marching home again, Sirah, Sirah!” Illiterate bumbling rhymes I find more stylish, an implicit impish grin. No limp, no pain, no pain, no gain.

Impressive words might be compared to a battery. It might look like many another, but don't expect it to push my agenda. Great balls of philosophy! What a pain. Take a thorny rose, but the nose knows. Yes, it's a subtle difference. Take Kant, Spinoza and Bergson, all dancing on the head of a pin. To make your head spin. Could they deal with climate change? Nuclear weapons? The first, nuclear, instant, truly global pandemic?

The same words apply, like an Apple in iParadise, gone awry.

Little bits of the Venn serve unheard of purposes. This must be the giraffe placard in natural camouflage, passing for beauty in the mind of the beholder. Some hint of the hinterland has, by osmosis, penetrated the vale. Sunnyvale. The heart of Silicon Valley, still thumping in the Hewlett Packard shrine on Addison Avenue in Palo Alto. Private perceptions that have clambered into the public domain, claiming privilege. And I use them, even if only by way of alliteration. Litter by literary standards.

Stand back, Sirah. I am on the march. And you have been notified.

These are the meanings of an ordinary battery, in purple efflorescence. Look away for just a moment, and the giraffe will slowly stretch over the moat and chomp a clutch of hair. Will it tingle? Was it static in the air? But wouldn't that crackle?

Give it some thought. But not too much.

World wide weeds are a storehouse of wisdom, shared amongst themselves, admired by birds without secrets. What do we know? Train schedules and biscuits. There is a sort of unsung inequality that needs no self promotion.

We don't want them. They ignore us.

I have known weeds that spit seeds at me – watch the eyes! They're reflexive of course, disarming any vengeful counterattack. I have known some that twist into a spiral in the sun, a sort of ballet that goes unnoticed. There are some so pregnant with seeds, called (poetically) spotted spurge, that nothing in the long run stops the miniature leopard. Some with savage thorns, or with glistening stingers, to repel any approach. Some that smell like rotting flesh. And some so beautiful they're allowed to grow in spite of their reputation, for awhile.

Collectively they have us at bay, who think ourselves masters and mistresses of our patch of dirt. Humble beings they are, that humble us. Odes have been dedicated – the meek shall inherit the earth.

Truly. At Chernobyl, they thrive in radioactive waste. We like having a good time while modestly they show us life. And for any of this they have no need of authors like me.