Pine trees never change. Behind Beanblossom & Sons Funeral Home, awaiting dead distant cousin processing, I engage in gravel road conversation with elephant foot yam gardeners, in wide open marriage, who worship scarecrow Kuebiko, Shinto divinity of agriculture. The flowers stink, the flies hasten fertilization, the edible portions grow round and large as Olympic Curling stones.

Yellow astronaut believed knowledge a priori. Blue astronaut believed knowledge a posteriori. Both stood upon Mons Wolff, upon the moon. This mountain was named after Christian Wolff, German ontologist, who believed knowledge a priori. Blue astronaut hinted. We discovered that at the same time. Yellow astronaut frowned. You knew that way before me. Blue astronaut smiled.

Of course pine trees can change, most invisibly. Needles remain green four seasons, consumed by goats, inner bark lining licked by desperate goats. Nematode worms kill pines. It is a kind of wilting disease. Another kind of wilting disease is using the exact same gas station pump eight years. Say nematode out loud. Nematode. Feels good.

I overpaid the toll booth scanning my ideology. 11 miles of 318 curves. I stopped investing in Revelation’s multiple-headed hybrid creatures, or legged dragon cockatrice (winged rooster, snake rear) or legless prismatic dragon amphiptere that grew fur. 120 helmetless motorcyclists whipped around my affordable automobile. How ashamed of my humanity each appeared.

Terror hides within territory for reasons. In 1992, Doug Snavely traveled here from Atlanta, told sports car owners he barely knew throughout the country to move in with him. He published Hot Lap (road-enthusiast newsletter) and telescopic gunshots from a 1976 Corvette missed his kneecaps several holidays. Early Memorial Day he was just exiting Walgreens Pharmacy.

Weaver ants ceased believing in stress-free summers by 1981. Pushing past linoleum, skew polygon blob representing 18,000 deformed bodies exhaling simultaneously, dipping legs into yellow phosphorus meant for vermin. Our 4th of July buzzed babysitter from some irresponsible sterile city asking us why was Quaker Self-Rising Johnnycake Meal inching toward her on our kitchen floor?

Rapper Xzibit went to Cibola High School. We can hear Chihuahuan Desert Yucca and a snippet of General George Crook’s death rattle in his debut At the Speed of Life. Xzibit taught himself seven techniques to whistle including a method that attracts groundhogs. We witnessed that at Modular Skatepark, near Coors Bypass. Spring came omnivorously fast.

Santa Ana Boys & Girls Club Director was a Little Belize Old Colony Mennonite, excommunicated for feeding horses using pewter gravy ladles elders encased in custom foam cutouts, the way snipers store rifles. Parents arrived late afternoons. Kids pretended to spoon soup, special sign to bid good-night paragon hope to see you tomorrow.

Turned loose in Tustin thrift store, I purchased a postcard picturing beardless Karl Marx pre-1840. I saved it until my big unauthorized house party 1993. I used it to invite Zack de la Rocha, added home phone. He could not attend. My Compaq Presario missed two calls from Las Pozas Mexico. He was trying to tell me himself.

Mount St. Helens’ final victim: our neighbor Helen, sporting tight-strapped chunky-heeled huarache-style shoes sunk in mud up to ankles standing lava side stuck humming Air Supply’s “Lost in Love” but get this – ash particles flared madrone trees, cindered minutes before they would have fallen on Helen’s property naturally, which we purchased in 1980, refinanced in 1999.

Nike tried to hire miniature diorama artist Tanaka Tatsuya, whose works include a lumbered green pencil forest and a bullet train fashioned from conjoined lipsticks circumnavigating a city filled with blush compacts and fragrance bottle buildings. Nike wanted to market a tiny Dončić quarantined inside latest torus sole pocket. Antetokounmpo, replied life-size Tatsuya.