Lawn butt

Weird how too much green begins to look grey after awhile. This is for all you hummingbirds out there.

What do gardeners think about? It's a wonderful activity for cogitation. Last fall I heard an essay on the radio about how useful gardening is for sorting through anger. I think that's true. To look at me, for example, I'm peaceably tilling the soil and nurturing my little green children. Inside, I'm hearing Robbie Fulks sing "You Shouldn't Have" and wondering what lets people give themselves permission to whore around. I'm stabbing the blade of my shovel into the ground and gouging out chunks of soil. Ripping up roots. What green light allows them to drive spouses off and fall into bed -- or worse, love -- with someone else? What switch turns empathy for the discarded lover into indifference? How horrifying they are with their rosy new infatuations, blissfully explaining how they've never really understood love before now, oblivious to the blasted hearts they leave behind. (And then they get up on their moral hind legs and evince disgust with other adulterers. Somehow it's not disgusting when they do it.) Oh, to split their beating breastbones with a dull and rusty spade and transplant the torment they've inflicted into their own tender, squirming hearts.

It's been many years now since I've seen that green light, but it was different when I did it. I think. I'd better go pull some weeds now. Kill kill kill.

I'm givin' you the bill for a thousand tears spilled
That I'm going to be a long time forgettin'
Thanks a lot for wreckin' my heart
Well, you shouldn't have