Skunk weed takes various forms, but as I encountered it, the plants grew in fetid, marshy waters where the summer heat and humidity battled each other for supremacy. Skunk weed waxed and stank with wild abandon. It thrived in conditions that left me limp as old lettuce.
Yesterday was one such lettuce day -- thick with heat and humidity, sapping in its languorous and inescapable presence... it was like some damp angora cat that sat down idly on a passing ant and I was conquered ... struggling, but conquered. Struggling, I took a shower to wash away the sweat that slimed my body. I dried off only to begin sweating again. The damp cat had not moved.
If I were as profound as skunk weed, wise and holy men from the Himalayas to the Andes would beat a path to my door, bowing and scraping and offering incense, making an unnecessary racket. But I am not as wise as skunk weed, much as I might wish to be. Instead, I am dumb as a box of rocks.
Yet a box of rocks is another goal that remains out of reach.
Skunk weed doesn't thrive or stink. Rocks aren't dumb.
When I grow up, I will be wise as the skunk weed that leaves wise and holy men to their own devices.
And to those who cried out piteously for relief and release I would be as factual and loving as the mother offering a breast to her babe:
Smell my armpit.