I was getting drunk
and then, here I am

Over the rails
and into the swamp
like a newt,
going home time

A man gets worried too easily
winds up working and not much else

Got ten acres
of flat dry land
gently sloping
to the south

Might fence it in
might get stuck
in the mud
while trying

Might put up a sauna
on the edge of the dugout
or a little hut
to sit in

He bought it for me years ago
and I painted it
which, says Tom, has caused the neck to bow
it got into the cracks

Dig my heart
into a sandstone crevice
down on the shores
of my childhood pond

Take the leaves of
late summer
and scatter them around
my old aged self

the young sweet greens
par-boiled in the fog
just barely peppered
yet edible and friendly

of your colleague Joan

so they’ll be struck in the night

en route home.

feels find today

buying groceries

from boulangerie

while remembering the brutalities or

television ownership then pouring

cold tea upon the dying ‘annuals’

in the real sick way

that sounds too trashy

to be some nature borne thing

the trawler breaths

beneath/along the stream

inside monochrome fjords.

delicate machine up

the old man’s hill

where we’ll get all fussy.

filled up with the

ice of Alice’s sailboat

who’s ballast were full

of South Georgia’s melt.

there is hay in my hair
barley in my eyebrows
dirt on my pants

the dog is slobbering in my hand
the horse in breathing in my nose

I rubbed my eyes from the sting
and brushed the ashes off my shirt.
I breathed out fumes
and soon my head lost its’ weight.

A week later I was good
I ‘d burnt the tabak every night
It was easy now
I knew what to expect:

Where the smoke would blow
and how I could get it there
My options opened up
I saw the bar and within it the maze.

But before they die
they make love
with candle sticks
who take their fire
and let it soak
and burn right through
until nothing is left
but a cold hard puddle.

power walk goddamn laps

until suppertime

and late at night
with the water running
I take a piss in there

It flew off at top speed like a halogen meteor
in the orange darkness down Boulevard Clichy.

So much indoor sex I was thinking,
such an awful lot of neon.

my dog foxy no longer chases forest shrews

hanna gets lazy, molly moves on

merdle just goes on working

mr. rain sells the bulldozer

dr.huff retires

lance fly fishes full-time

the potatoes flood across the lake

marline looses her mind completely

beavers clog the outlet again

someone finds marijuana on the island

the government declares the swamp protected

(mr. rittens old vegetable garden)

jack elliots pony escaped

(got trapped on the front porch)

lyles boat got stolen

rainbow air went out of business

paulas dogs keep on barking

(a falcon ate her goose)

our rabbit went blind

tillies hind legs begin to fail

new regulations shut down the slaughter house

the riding ring is over grown

hot water bill bought some hogs

brent bought an old leaky boat

the cabin on the point has carpenter ants

sheila and mick are feuding over the driveway

dick zuiderzee has got alzheimers

the longs dock was lost in a storm

williams chimney caught fire

from kingdom come
comes tomato cans
marching down the alley way
sitting nicely upon your hand

the juice comes out
sporting shades
and bends down through
the chinese maze

susans cat feels much better
it’s the bitter end of a long
drawn out
sickness

Oysters work to keep their egg shells strong
and once-in-a-while we find a double yolk
(down the end of the drive they sell for $2 a dozen)

Good and hardy and sturdy
from the heart of New England
and quick work of compost

Keep a keen eye out for falcons
and put golf balls in the nests
while they’re young

Sometimes clean out the coop
and transport in the dark

And as she reaches up
some rolls over the edge
and hits the water

And as she puts her head under
some rolls over the rim
and hits the floor

But the wake as it slaps the tile
is drowned by Shubert
from the next room

And her hair floats
in the dark water
and fans

he couldn’t get back to sleep
and the next day he had to work
but not until eleven o’clock in the morning

but at seven the construction would begin
and no one can sleep through that

he sat up late listening the neighbors
and Yusef Lateef’s eastern sounds

sleep came to Itay like finely ground coffee
dripping through the sheppard’s crook
of Lateef’s bassoon

milked along, watered by spit
from the boot through the bocal
to the double reeds and down his throat

I wait for her
on top of Champagne Hill
forecasting winter
by fire