call me walt because i am of the tribe of that man who bent down by a river where the sky is closest and smelled the grass. and in that grass he found the odor of man and woman and child, all dead or alive, ancestors ancient, too ancient to know their name but not dead long enough to be forgotten entirely. and he smelled the grass, and he could see them drag their bodies out of the womb and across the earth, their next of kin, the animal, looking on as the dragging went on, surprised as to the keenness of these creatures: to make something. and making they did.

making was their morning when they awoke. making their midday when the broke the bread and shared it. making their evening when they left the field to rest. and even at night they were making love and dreams, weaving fate and and folly all in one thread to be spun the next day and the day after that. so it was with the making. next to the making, they were also masters in the unmaking. their gods were makers as well as destroyers – flowers in one hand, flash in the other.

i sing the song of myself because everybody is me and i am everyman and woman and child whose scent the grass keeps forever, the trampled grass, the revered grass, the grass of the golf course and of the patch in front of your suburbian house, and the smoked grass that makes you hear harpies and why the hell not.

© 2009 finnegan flawnt