Once upon a time, I found myself
Marching through the icy corn stubble of Western Kansas
Invited, as I was, to a Texican-style pheasant hunt
To engage yonder hapless fowl with the tools of the trade

Not being exactly locals, Texans tend to
Make the most of aforesaid expeditions
Shooting at flying fowl, and anything that closely approximates
Others of the ilk,

Helicopters

Clouds

Sides of barns

And running-screaming-from-the-scene Expats

Escaping, as it were, as if to his former land of make-believe
Of golden sunsets, lobster ceviche appetizers, Jackson Browne croonings
Clicking his muddy boots together, maybe mid-stride
A hapless Judy Garland-cum-Dorothy

Praying, to his humorless God
That there's most certainly

No place like home.

In turning a corner, I was assaulted
Literally
By the stench of the abode
Of a particular bovine species

That of which I was previously unfamiliar, except
To say that the, um, stench
Remotely rang the most scatological of bells
Deep down inside my own forgotten bowels.

How, in the heretofore pristine world, does
Such an animal exist, even
Seemingly enjoy,
Said surroundings?

As I watched in awe, inspired
Even in some horrifying way
This creature, just bathing there
Close to his own kin

Without a care in the world
No concerns as to hygiene
Or appearance
Or whatever woe-begotten impression he might make

Simply

Wallowing

There stood this Expat, agape
Holding his borrowed shotgun, assuredly incorrectly
Probably clasped white-knuckled around the wrong end
Ammunition bulging from his parka pockets

Likely mixed in with
Beef jerky
A matchbook from the local barbeque restaurant
Maybe a Jimi Hendrix cassette in there, unspooling

Unwound Axis Bold as Love, I suppose

Years later, I now reflect
On how so much can be accomplished
Impacted, maybe even impressed
Upon me, when I encounter another who

Wallows

Maybe lost in thought.
Or, rather
Maybe deep in thought.

Considering what his future may entail.
Perhaps a lead role in an E. B. White novel
A screaming passenger in a GEICO commercial
Better yet, the centerpiece of an Expat breakfast





Alas, there I go again.
Adrift in my own wallowing
Thinking, as I did on that frigid January day
In Thomas County

Of how this fetid scene could inspire
He of the grand sponsorship of long ago Los Angeles Dodgers
Hearing, as I do to this very day,
The deep baritones intoned of Vin Scully

Encouraging us to start our days,
Alongside those scrambled eggs and toast
The delight of the Southland marketplace
He of the smiling rural face


Or, maybe, when
The lead guitarist of the newly-discovered Jethro Tull
Decides to stick with his blues-based roots
And forsake the flutist-meanderings of what would soon become

Classic rock



To instead found the more dangerous
Of musical adventures, bound for oblivion
After only a record or two
Yet, still, as it does on occasion

Drift through the mind of the tortured blogger
Doing his own share of reflections
Of times and scenes past
Indeed, participating in that most piggish of activities

Wallowing


Shaking his head, he
Realizes the coaxing into the muddy abode
That is so repulsive, yet
Inviting

To just simply take a minute
Let one's troubled soul relax, take in the scenery
Even allow that demented mind to have it's sway
And take you down that road

Past the strangest of signposts
Into uncharted territories
Yellow-bricked roads
Tornado-scarred landscapes

And back again

To, if you're lucky
Even tell about it
To those who might listen
Might appreciate

Or, better yet
To those who are simply shocked
By the overcoming of odors
Emitting from yourself, having forsaken

All that is necessary to exist
To abide appropriately
In the best of comforts
And the finest of first impressions

Or, perhaps
The opposite is true
That, you are who you are
You go where you go

And, when necessary
Regardless of the impact on said audience
You must return to yourself
And take a moment or two

And simply

Wallow.