Friday, September 07, 2007


At the camp, in the morning, everyone pisses on the fire.

The sun hides in a wind behind the squall of pines

Across the field. In the smoldered remains of Dillard’s

Double wide the ghost of his dog, Darling, noses.

The woods from here go on and on into strangeness

Through a dirt road which always seems to take your time.

It’s ok to be naked if the winds are down. Right before

Falling into the fire last night, one of us, Pericles of

Any righteous moment, declared all the rest of them,

Us, were pussies. We gaffed him out quick and all

Was well again. The Big dipper scooped more portions

For who ever comes later to examine the wreckage,

A hefty bit of aluminum and broken glass smelted

Like ore in the very monster’s heart of the fire pit.


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