I.
Thoreau and the Unabomber
sit at a small, dusty table
in a cabin, arm-wrestling
over who is smarter, who
will leave the more lasting impression.
One cannot help but notice
the freckles of dust
riding the sunlight through
the tiny window. One cannot
help but wish a maid would enter.
II.
Thoreau and the Unabomber
stand in front of an ATM,
arguing about who has less money,
fewer material attachments.
“For over two decades,” argues Ted,
“I have lived off less than four hundred dollars
a year! I nearly starved more than once!”
“Ah! See how married you are to money
and its greedy pursuit,” argues Henry.
“You should have just borrowed more stuff.
You should have walked home for a chicken dinner
and a load of laundry once in a while.”
III.
Thoreau and the Unabomber
are in an Irish pub, staring
at a plump, redheaded woman
throwing darts. “If she were mine,”
swoons Henry, “I would show her
the star-eaten blanket of the night,
and bathe in the cool stream of her eyes.”
“If she were yours,” answers Ted,
“I would mail you a gift.”
IV.
Thoreau and the Unabomber
are poking Buddha’s belly,
laughing uproariously like schoolboys.
Buddha sighs and suggests
they might find better use
of their time. “What would you suggest?” asks Henry.
Buddha closes his eyes to consider an answer.
Upon opening them, he sees a cabin
at the high end of a kite string.
V.
Thoreau and the Unabomber
visit my cabin in Arkansas.
Wide-eyed and nearly speechless,
startled by its spaciousness.
“Why, you could fit both our cabins,
along with Ted’s secret one, in here
and still have room to dance!” exclaims Henry.
“I don’t really want to dream
about you dancing,” I respond.
“Well, let’s get this over with,”
says Ted, as he snatches up
Henry’s hands and twirls him.
“Oh!” I gasp.
“I was in the woods for twenty-two years,”
says Ted. “Surely you do not think
I thought of nothing but bombs.”
VI.
Thoreau and the Unabomber
are hiking a rocky trail
deep into the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.
It is a difficult walk for Henry
because of the altitude and because
he is used to the calm, manicured trails
of New England. Ted thinks Henry
a bit of a fancy pants. However,
at the lower Lake of the Clouds,
Henry catches a trout for lunch,
using only a safety pin and
a ball of twine. Ted has not enjoyed food
for a long time so much as he drools
over this little fish. He looks up
to see an eagle intersect the path
of an airplane and wonders
if any of his students at Berkeley are dead.
VII.
Thoreau and the Unabomber
arrive at Bloomsburywest,
a writer’s retreat in Colorado,
and Ted immediately rifles
through the books. “Clearly,”
he declares, “the proprietress
is a leftist of some sort.
Most likely a feminist.”
“But Ted,” says Henry. “Look!
String cheese and green salsa…
and no television.”
“Kind of feminine, though, wouldn’t
you agree?” asks Ted.
“All these bright colors,
all this art.”
“Actually,” answers Henry, while
claiming the top bunk to better keep
an eye on Ted in the night,
“Matisse was a man, and
women do not own particular hues.”
But Ted is no longer listening
as he spies the shack in the backyard.
“A secret cabin,” he thinks to himself,
“a room of my own, indeed.”
Marck L. Beggs lives a simple life in a cabin by a pond in Arkansas, sort of like Thoreau with technology. He is the author of Libido Café (2004) and Godworm (1995). “Seven Dreams” is from his forthcoming collection, Catastrophic Chords.