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the monster of little river canyon

the hiking trails weaving
through the foliage
surrounding Little River
Canyon are considered
mildly exerting by most,
but the hike liked to kill me.

my wife was the advocate
for outdoor activity.
I wished to enjoy nature
on my own terms,
those terms being a mossy log
which I could comfortably
sit on beside my wife
on a bluff overlooking the
waterfalls of Little River.

green vivid Spring throttled
the view in every direction.
the scent of lush vegetation
cloyed the nostrils, greenery
so dense you could practically
hear the verdure stretching
toward the midday sun.
we radiated peace,
contentment, sitting on the
fallen tree with our smiling
faces raised to the sky.

and that’s when the beast
leapt upon me with its
scalpel claws rending my
chest, tearing sinew from bone.
its ravenous maw ripped
into my face, teeth gouging
my eyes, dismantling
my facial features.

that’s what you would have thought,
anyway, hearing me scream
when I felt the moist nose
nuzzle my upturned palm.

the scream torn loose from
my lungs reverberated
across the entire valley
setting birds to the wing
nearly five miles away.

my wife looked at me
as if I had lost my mind.
the little dachshund
nosing my palm cringed
away from me, stricken,
and its teenaged owner
appeared mortified,
whether this was due to her
inability to adhere
to leash laws or my
humiliatingly shrill reaction
to the dog attack was
difficult to ascertain.

regardless, nature had lost
a bit of its luster.
the grandeur of the view
felt, somehow, diminished
as I listened to my wife
attempt to console me
by citing how often
in the past hardened men,
tough, heavily bearded men
steeped in testosterone,
have been terrified by
marauding wiener dogs.

Canadian blue grass

it’s been a day of running errands
listening to my Spotify playlist
at full volume, feeling good with this
fleeting freedom from factory hell.
I stop into Osbourne Jewelers to
pick up a few rings in need of cleaning.
the clerk attending to me resembles
Travis Kelce in the way he fashions
his beard and hair which immediately
sets me against his continued existence.
but as I’m wishing him ill, the Dead South’s
‘Black Lung’ begins playing on
the store’s speakers, and my mood
instantly lightens to the extent that
when the Kelce clone appears with
my rings, I nod at the ceiling speakers
and tell him how surprising it is
to hear the store playing such a
great song, not sure which radio
station has the song on rotation,
I have to assume its satellite radio
to be playing such an obscure cut
from a band so outside the mainstream.
he gives me an awkward ‘oh yeah’
and it’s okay that this poor bastard
who tailors himself after a
dipshit football player is unfamiliar
with Canadian blue grass, this is his
chance to broaden his musical taste
outside of the usual Taylor Swift stuff.
‘I’m going to see these guys at the
Ryman in Nashville, next month,’
I tell him and the clerk with his
impeccably trimmed beard says
‘well, that sounds like a fun time,’
and I assure him it will be, reiterating
my surprise that the jewelry store
should be playing such great music.
when he turns to print out my receipt,
it’s only then I realize the music is
playing from the phone in my pocket.

ABOUT THE ARTIST

Karl Koweski is originally from the Chicagoland area. He has been living in rural Alabama for close to three decades and is still trying to acclimate to the lifestyle. He has two full length collections of poetry “Under Normal Conditions” and “Abandoned By All Things” available from Roadside Press. His latest book, “Thrift Store Jackets” is a collection of short stories. All three books are available wherever books are sold… online.

Image generated on Magic Studio