WOODEN INDIAN (Flash Fiction Fridays-J.P.Hart)

I have seen them. At times when the light is just so. I would like to describe it better. Unclear to me if you have seen such light. Maybe there are messages in birdsongs and one ought to record them, and create an index file, moments in order, to be reeled like panicked sunfish. I imply an image: light-just-so of an Indian not far, sighted, usually in buckskin is my guess, black bound hair on his back; the sky iridescent: aspen leaf yellow, violet and sharp blue, not a soft wisp blue but a dark, really dark blue, a radiant golden sunset, a fist height nearly gone then suddenly hidden by pine, and he would move away from where I, also still, from where I watched the Indian disappearing straight back from the tree until invisible.

No Indians were seen around where I live. I tell you. Except I saw this one for most of all year. On days it did not rain. When the snow was not deep, as an example, just before nightfall.

Once in springtime, when poets walked the woods espying ferns, like billionaires in sturdy shoes on soft earth, now and again snow mounds on berms within dark shadows where the sun breaks the woods and glints on them only once, I am certain how the forgotten ice was noted, when the poets were seen that time of year, I am telling you around that season, I waited on the opposite round of the ash tree for the Indian near twilight. I waited. It got dark and he did not appear. The night fell cold and I sneaked around the tree, not breathing.

No one there. The Indian was not there.

And when the girl phoned me with a taped message of GPS coordinates where to find the trillium [______] and that she would wait for me with warm Chianti if I would bring a flashlight and the miner's lights for our foreheads so we could play fairies. I declined. I said I needed to do something besides that, leaving it there.

I bought a drum and left it in the sunlight near the tree for the Indian. That night there was a tropical storm all the way up from the Gulf of Mexico. And the next day mayflies had taken over the forest and I cautiously walked all the way out there, first moving thru underbrush as tho on a slant of an imaginary triangle, calculating a straight line, approaching the south of the tree, stalking, now and again stopping, I suspected that the drum was there and sodden by the rain, by the storm.

I saw footprints where he had stood, or at least I thought the moss toward the northwest side of the ash was indented, and there was a milk pod. No drum.

I saw how the smooth green pod had an opening like a vulva.

Inside amidst silky seeds I found a nickel. It was tarnished but a gift.

Jefferson.

There was a buffalo on the nickel.

I could not believe that one of the legs was gone. A three legged Buffalo is rare.

***

OCTOBER 2, 2009 5:00AM

Views: 84

Comment by J.P. Hart on May 10, 2019 at 1:23pm

Who would have thought?

Wheels scorched concrete gravely. Lots of happy neighbors, blind hippies. Crossing near those dead flowers, reviewing definitions of hell.

Pawning up for coherence, unwarranted, seldom brave, disguised, a protracted siege, this electricity, sold by the pound.

Another fire sale: castles swayed incense upon upon tender eyes my own.

Any, anyhue jitterbugging and lazy ike-ing (fishing lures, named for experts) or a quiet existentialist jumpin jumpin jumpin in fancy pants underground.
A Jackson Pollack, without frame.

Me needed cold rain, this one more so sunny afternoon.

Saliva, beneath the light and dark of your madras umbrella.

Souls played dead, grave listener.

Ear to the ground, guilt by association.

Half dozen stronger poets clung to the long arm of the doomsday clock, their palms creased, yet they had fun. Jokes freely shared.

Bored, no escape. Hedonists animate creepy, arcane things needing shots of warm milk. Or at least anti-freeze as autumn arrived, sneakily and then a barn burner out from the shadows lobotomizing over at the third or fourth window.

Too topical? Maybe. Better lightening is, well, in revision. I had no idea how suspicious jungle music has become. OMy OMy!(My~0~My)

Posit: why dwell on pre-Hiroshima tomes? Even the flowers etched shadows. At least, damnit, neatly arrange those bascarts; you would think the Teachers Union would distribute solar golf umbrellas to the street people, no? On The Other Hand (clapping)--although I'm avant garde for 'ing' words)(something that she said, no?) that might lead to street theater, an eye lost jousting, fencing, and then another. Then oddities from heaven on earth.

Blog Teachers Association arrived on the bandwagon harping hallelujah.

Pesticides will kill.

Pathetic strobe lights. That's why we call it ballin the Jack.

She remembered that July afternoon alongside the privets, the white picket fence, the sun too big for the sky, they said it had not rained for 39 days and she, the little girl, sat on the sidewalk, even her hop-scotch chalk idle, she sat there alone sometimes closing her eyes, saying every prayer she knew, knowing all the words.

Coin changed hands as personality harkens worthless devils, skeletons to beg-gnawing/clawing warm earth of course.

I'm an educator too. Marble, really, here is my point, paraphrase Yeates.

get me some power, some influence she whispered

name one psychiatrist besides you who is not dead? Kubrick? Have we forgotten Kubrick?

ST WELLS what do you expect me to talk about? My best discovery in 35 years was that calypso woman made of bottle caps ... where...where did you put that?

It is next to the Osborne desktop --- is it not?

***

Comment by Rodney Roe on May 10, 2019 at 6:37pm

I live in the woods near a stream.  During the first couple of years that we were here it was frequently rainy and foggy, and in the mist, through the woods I saw native Americans (this was Cherokee country) and at one time a column of confederate soldiers on horseback.  Of course, I didn't; it was just the power of the weather and terrain, but I have seen real things that looked no more real.  I don't use hallucinogens, and I have no history of hallucination.  But, I do have a powerful imagination.

Comment by J.P. Hart on May 10, 2019 at 7:01pm

You had me going...thought Kevin Costner resumed his Dances with Wolves...

Comment by Steel Breeze on May 11, 2019 at 6:30am

hard rain in a dead quiet woods....always awakens hard memories....

Comment by Rodney Roe on May 11, 2019 at 7:24am

You can’t hear the predator coming, man or beast.

Comment by J.P. Hart on May 11, 2019 at 8:16am

Steel Breeze~

Rodney Roe~

Now I have to replace the book 

They Marched Into Sunlight: War and Peace Vietnam and America October 1967 

author David Maraniss 

which I'd gifted to a Gulf War combat veteran at the Legion.

14 hours until midnight and I thank you...

Comment by Rodney Roe on May 11, 2019 at 7:09pm

There are a lot of good books.  A friend gave me "Chicken Hawk" a few years back.  It was about flying helicopters in Vietnam in the first part of the American involvement in V.N.  It was more or less a memoir.  They had to cut trees and clear their own landing zone among other things.

Comment by J.P. Hart on May 13, 2019 at 2:21am

I have not read Robert Mason's Chicken Hawk.

Crazy ol' Asian war, wasn't it? Dogs of war sure weren't called back!

Senator George McGovern's stump speech often included:
"I'm tired of old men dreaming up wars for young men to die in...!"

As 'late' as 1972; the 07/11/'72 Presidential election results? This election was between United States President Richard Nixon and Senator of South Dakota George McGovern. Richard Nixon won the election by a landslide (winning 49 of 50 states). George McGovern got 17 electoral votes.

My hope and p.r.a.y.e.r.: that Albert Einstein's adage -- 'the last war' will be fought with 'sticks and stones' -- was not his best moment.
Premonitory some argue too, some say, viewing Guernica.
Unclear to this writer if violence is primal.

Survival sure is...La survie est sûre...

Comment by Rodney Roe on May 13, 2019 at 4:40am

There were a couple of unsurprising, yet unsettling, bits of news this morning.  From Moana Loa; greenhouse gas carbon dioxide is the highest in human history (800,000 years), and that PG&E utility company plans to cut power to millions of people this power during the fire season on windy days to prevent a broken transmission line form starting a wild fire.  Californians are not ready for that.  It will be a boon to battery makers, but that will only cover a small fraction of the customers.

Customers are looking for ways to keep their cell phones charged so that they can call Governor Gavin Newsome and complain.  (I will let you decide which part of that I made up.)

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