Tuesday, August 7, 2007

Working Title

Through thickets of blackberry and scrub oak on damp spring mornings my dad and I wound a secret path to his marijuana plants. Tall weeds surrounded by 200 foot firs. I learned the word prowler. My dad naked chased the prowler down Hendricks hill. My own marijuana never got that sort of attention. Even when I got older, he always had the best stuff. Most of the hippies I grew up with smoked the ditch weed they got used to in the sixties. But I guess he had Alaskan Thunderfuck or at least that’s what somebody told me after we smoked what I stole from his stash.

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