my grandfather worked testing johnny weissmuller's vines. he also worked at goebel's lion farm. as far as i know the closest he ever came to a real jungle was southern california. or maybe the migrant workers' fruit orchards.

i'm having an almost jungle moment. it's not as tasty as the real thing.

the interior of our continent used to be forest. perhaps in some point past i could have brachiated from the coast ranges to whitman's door. the second is a forward unit. my hands don't bend so deftly. my palms are soft. jets dehydrate. cars are slow. should i start with my left foot.

listening: the skin of my yellow country teeth-- clap your hands say yeah.

if hesitation made acorns i'd be there by now.