I saw something horrifying this morning. I was tired, my head was pounding, I hadn't had my coffee yet, and I was driving to pick up my sister so she could babysit while I went to work. Right there in town, some fucking idiot hunter macho moron hung the deer that he so bravely and honorably killed right from his front porch. Blood was dripping down, and the deer was big, hanging from his neck. I fought the urge to cry, vomit, scream, call PETA or something. I don't even know where to begin with my rant. The idea that someone can take something so violent and ugly and turn it into this big competition to see who is the more manly, who can take down and kill a beautiful graceful, living, warm, breathing animal and then hang it from the front proch like "look how much of a man I am, I killed a deer!" Christ. Then they will think nothing of stripping the skin from the flesh, the flesh from the bones and dining on the meat, sharing it with friends and family, passing around the photos of the kill at Thanksgiving. And it's not just men, I know. Women are into it, too, and people are taking their young children out and teaching them how to shoot a gun, an arrow, whatever, like it's some rite of passage.
On a similar note, for the last month or so, my husband and I have been watching the abandoned building next to our house as people have been remodeling it and getting it ready for something new. Last week I was disgusted to see that it is now a taxidermy and gift shop. "In Harmony with Nature" the sign reads. Are they serious? Having the head of a deer(or something else that was once alive) hanging on the wall in the den, once again a trophy to the great hunter, proof of his manliness. I have to stop there. I could go on for hours, but I won't bore whoever is reading this, which is probably nobody.
I wrote a poem recently, like an hour ago. Not my best, but at the rate I write poems these days, I'm lucky I even got to the notebook. I was loading the dishwasher when it hit me, so I started searching for my journal, desperate to get it down before it left me. I found it, and a pen and sat down. Then Drew needed help getting out of the tub, dried off, lotion on, underwear found. Then the teapot started whistling and I turned it off. I wrote it down quickly, finished the dishes, then turned the water back on for some instant Mocha Cappuccino. Such is the life of a writing mother.

Awake-
rising up through the foggy
mist,
against my will,
struggling to stay inside
the dream.
I opened my eyes to see
him standing there,
innocent, a drawing in
one hand.
Outside the window
it's already dark
and my soul is
heavy,
sluggish,
cold.
In the surreal
world between
asleep and awake,
none of this makes a
bit of sense.