“I was going fishing,” he said, “nah, don’t you give me none of your shit, Donny Jock, cause not everybody wants to drop a bread ball off a hook and pull up catfish, I don’t care how well you say you like the taste, broiled, pan-fried, however you cook ’em up, I told you once I told you a thousand times, and you don’t need to go on about feathers and fur, everybody arready heard enough about that, I’d like to see you try it, you think you’re such hot shit.” He tipped a shot into his mouth and shook his head. “Besides,” he said, “it ain’t the fishing’s the point, though the trout were running good and I made some good calls on the dry-flies. Brought home a nice creel of rainbow, yessir, if you want to know. But the point’s not the fishing,” he took a long pull on his mug and cast his eyes to each side, “it’s when I’m driving there. Just minding my own business, the usual route I take, Bangor Road out past the old quarry, you know the run, when I drive past this pasture and it takes a minute, you know, for it to sink in, then I put the damn truck into reverse and, sure enough, there’s these big damn woolly cows, ain’t like nothing I’ve ever seen before. So I stop and get out and walk over to the fence, and they stop chewing on grass and sort of sidle up to the fence, and they got them big stupid cow eyes but they got like fur all over them, ain’t seen nothing like it in all my damn days.” “You sure you ain’t had a few beers arready that morning,” Donny Jock joshed him, an elbow in the ribs. “I ain’t had nothing to drink but some coffee. I don’t fish like you do, nothing more’n an excuse to down a six-pack or two, like you even needed one.” Donny looked like he might have something to say but couldn’t completely decide whether he was insulted or complimented, so he let it go with a shrug and then he downed a shot and backed it with a beer. “I mean, I’m wanting to get to the stream, hit it before the sun comes too high up over the hills, drive them trout deep or back into the roots along the bank, no chance I’ll take none home, but I just got to, you know, know, so I hump it down to the end of the fence and pull in where there’s a barn and just sit there letting her idle, feeling a damn fool, when this guy comes outen the barn and gives me a look, tips back his cap then walks on over to the car. Help you, he says when I roll down the window. Yessir, I tell him, I hope you can. Them—I don’t know, I say, what’s them up in the pasture? Oh, he says and leans his elbow against the door, they’re beefalo.” “Beefalo,” Donny Jock guffawed, “whose leg you trying to pull?” “No shit,” he said, “beefalo. What’s that, I ask him. They breed cows with bison, he tells me.” “Bison,” asks Donny Jock. “Yeah,” he said, “bison. Like buffalo.” Donny asked, “Buffalo?” “Yeah, like what’s- his-name, Buffalo Bill Cody.” “Buffalo,” Donny said like it’s a surprise ending to a long joke. “Buffalo,” he affirmed, and Donny Jock shook his head and took another pull of his beer, his forehead furrowed, “I’ll be damned.”
Henny Penny: A Scientific Inquiry
“You ever wonder,” Millard says, “what
keeps the sky up?”“It’s air,” Everett says,
“it’s all just air, straight up from where your
feet are till you can’t see any further.”“But what’s
up where the clouds are, that don’t look
the same as what’s down here where we’re
breathing.” “Didn’t you go to school,” Everett asks,
“didn’t they teach you about this kind
of stuff, it’s air, what we breathe, just the same
down here as it is up there except if you go
high enough it gets so thin that you can’t
breathe it, not enough oxygen, that’s why those men who landed on the moon had to wear those helmets and the big packs they
lugged around on their backs, only they didn’t feel so heavy cause the moon’s gravity ain’t as strong as ours.” Millard just
shakes his head and takes another swallow of
beer, he hasn’t really been the same since
that time his chickens blew up, and I don’t figure
you’d be all that ok if you had a load
of buried chickens blow up and cover you with
rotted bits of chicken flesh, but he doesn’t
talk about that much, just wonders about the kind
of thing most of us gave up wondering about about
the time we discovered girls. “I been up
to the mountains,” Millard says, “around
near Lake Ozonia, park the car and there’s trails you can take up the side, gets steep
some places, you have to scrabble over rocks, sometimes
slip away under your feet, but the sky
still seems the same distance away, and I stand
there at the top, a few trees around but mostly rocks, and
I look up and wonder what the hell keeps the sky
up.” Everett snorts, shakes his head and raises a finger
and Blanche brings him another beer, he looks over
at me, cups his hand around his mouth and whispers,
Retard, shakes his head and takes a pull,
“Millard, you gotta get over reading Henny Penny, that
was when you were a boy, now we got science,
men walking in space, walking on the moon,
you can’t walk around wondering what keeps the
damn sky up, it ain’t scientific.” He looks
to me to back him up on this but I’m busy packing
tobacco in my pipe and I just keep
myself busy, I don’t want no part of this
debate, I can tell there’s no winning, the way when I’d talk politics with my father,
there was no winning, not for either one of us,
and I can see this is shaping up about the same.
“Science,” Everett says once more and swallows some more
beer. Millard’s nursing his, picks it up and
looks at the light behind the bar through the
lens of the mug, seems satisfied and takes another sip.
“Science or no science,” Millard says, “you can see
the difference from down here where we breathe and up
there where the clouds are, at night you see
the stars, I just want to know and if you can’t
tell me, well, that’s ok, but what in hell keeps the
sky up?”
A Catechism; That Is To Say, An Instruction, To Be Learned by Every Person before He Be Brought To Be Confirmed…
Question. What is the outward visible sign or form in Baptism? Answer. Water; wherein the person is baptized, In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. —The Book of Common Prayer
What, as you sit on your stool before the bar, is your name? My name is not drunkard, for I sit before the bar in the cause of communion, which may be attained through repeated lubrication, which involves steadfast libation. What is the outward visible sign or form of living? Beer, for by beer we come to know the innerselves deeply hidden from man by man, and the innermost workings of our righteous, drunken selves. Do you not think that you are bound to that stool by more than your own belief in the healing power of cheap beer and shots of rail whiskey? Yes, I am bound to the belief that good company surpasses most else in this vale of tears, and that good companions at the bar make the most neighborly and satisfying of neighbors. What have you chiefly learned in the articles of faith that bind you before Blanche and her taps of finite but fathomless promise? First, I learn to believe not to believe all that I hear while imbibing with my fellow communicants, for the sacramental distillant and brew tend when taken in optimal doses to loosen the tongue and exaggerate that which we come to call what’s real. What are the number of solemn commandments you promise before Blanche the dispenser and arbiter to follow at risk of being flagged for now and all time to come? Three. Which are they? First,never force someone to listen without insuring that they are duly served with beer and whiskey. Secondly, never question the veracity of those who speak even intemperately so long as they pick up the round. Thirdly, never for more than the time it takes to gain Blanche’s undivided attention allow empty vessels to sit before you and your fellows on the bar. O Blanche, you of the tap and the bottles arrayed before the time- and weary-worn mirror, keep the frosted mugs and swelling shotglasses filled at the least sign that we, your humble patrons, require libation to lubricate ourselves for the world beyond your doorsill, keep the prices low and we will never question whether the beer is fresh or the whiskey watered, thus we petition, your humble and grateful patrons before the bar, for at least until last call.
Dark
It is better to go to the house of mourning than to go to the house of feasting. —Ecclesiastes 7:2
Nights grow longer, on the drive home, the window cranked open, the air seems dark, freighted with winter’s impending weight, but leaves rustle their October songs and mist curls in ropes across asphalt. Deer cross the road, grey blurs looming in the headlights too late almost to avoid hitting them. On the side of the road I see one lying, pull over and walk back. She’s alive, barely, just over the ditch and only a few yards short of where the woods begin. So close, almost there, a second, a simple second, one way or the other she would’ve made it, woods, freedom, the chance to browse more leaves, whatever—I’m lost in the deer’s life as I can only imagine it—her forelegs kick desperately, weakly among the grass and weeds, her neck arched, eyes glowing fear, but she’s completely broken, dead except for her beating heart and crackling brain, under the cold roof of stars, among the wisps of ground fog, her sides still heaving, I go back to the car and get the tire iron from the trunk and I do what, in praise, in glory, in all abiding, has to be done.
The Redneck Buddhist’s Creed
with thanks to Meg Kearney
I believe that God did not create the heavens and the earth, or, if he did, that, whatever kind of entity he may be, he is extraordinarily patient, since the work of building this universe and all the galaxies whirling within it, and the planets, and the billions of lives on those planets is the work of somewhere in the rough vicinity of fifteen billion years, a long shift by anyone’s measure, and I hope he got appropriate overtime. I believe that whether or not we’re graced with another spin around the block we call our lives, we need to treat this time like it’s the only chance we’ll have to drive this particular vehicle, loaded or not as it may be; if we’re lucky we’ve got air, heat, a CD player, even if we can’t afford heated seats or a six- disk changer. I believe we’re all like people wandering around wondering where we left the keys when they’re gripped firmly in our hands. That’s what enlightenment’s all about—the thing we have and just don’t realize how important it is to wake up and understand what we’re holding, already, in our hands. I believe that the only thing better than a crisp autumn night with a blaze flaming in the fireplace is the first night of spring when we can sit out on the patio I made and sip beer while the bats appear from their nest in the barn and flit overhead among the flowering branches before they swoop to the pond where they circle for bugs. I believe beer is good for my health, regardless of what anyone argues—something that satisfying must, you can’t argue with experience, be a balm to the soul and a boost to the spirit. I believe marriage is the best way to spend your life even though I’ve failed miserably three times, but this time—this time—I’ve finally got it right and know how I’ll spend the remainder of my days. I believe that right now, even though it’s scarcely after noon, I’ll pour myself a beer.
Li Po Stops To Consider Bowman’s Hill
Mud everywhere. When I slow to check the road signs, dogs gallop barking through the mud and stop at the verge of their property. Beyond the houses and barns woods rise up the slopes drifting with mist. A few deer browse at the edge of the tree-line and, when I lower the window, the sound of a creek coursing between the glacial moraine.
*
Atop the mountain, reach out a hand and let the stars run through fingers like sand. Shh—more than a whisper might wake the sleeping birds.
*
Rain falls and tatters of mist glide through the grass and emerge from the pond’s surface through approaching evening and vanish in the low clouds that unravel their hems on the pines at the top of Bowman’s Hill.
*
Like a dream, like a bubble rising in the stream, this world of ten thousand things. What else than to sip wine all day behind the house until I stumble into sleep and wake to the sound of a robin throating its evening song from the horse-chestnut. The first stars glimmer over Bowman’s Hill and soon the robin’s call fades into dark. I pour another glass and when the moon slides above the hilltop I’ve forgotten why I’m here.
*
The grass discards its winter beige and fresh green spreads all the way to the patio. Everything driven by rising sap except my weed-bound heart. In the swaying irises and tulips, I see your hand, planting the beds, rooting out all the persistent weeds.
*
Beneath the surface of the pond sunlight marks the swirl of fish arching through the green-brown water. Kneel close beside the bank or else the light will sliver your eyes.
*
War is far from Bowman’s Hill but the thought of it clangs and distant explosions disrupt the swerve of bats above the pond. Ten thousand years in the world of ten thousand things, and little ever changes. Men and women scream, children lie in the blazing ruins, crows descend to make their feast, flesh draping from trees where they squabble over the bloody morsels. For what? Weapons, the wise men know, hew nothing but suffering and those who heft them show nothing but that they’ve waited too long and the time for reason has passed as surely as the last bits of sunlight vanish from the darkened mirror of the pond.
*
The sky has lost the last trace of birds. Perhaps they’ve retreated beyond the clouds that slip slowly around the earth’s curve. Bowman’s Hill gazes back under the clear skies until only the hill remains.
*
End of summer, drinking on Bowman’s Hill, the last fury of blossoms tangle the ground while leaves flare in afternoon sun. An oak leaf loosens in the breeze and dances among the leaves until it skitters off driven by the colder wind.
Four AM
I might’ve listened to music, but then the sound would’ve woken her, though I could’ve used the ear buds, but they make me feel too deeply packed inside my head, the entire world reduced to whatever lies within the tunnel of my immediate focus. I might’ve listened to music, but then I’d have had to have chosen whether country or jazz, or maybe Domenico Zipoli’s “Adagio for oboe, cello, organ, and stringed orchestra” in which the plaintive tones of the oboe chase the bowed dolor of the cello all the way to God in their amazing bliss. I might’ve listened to music, but then I would’ve missed the notes of the day’s first bird sliding easily through the opened window moments before the first light made its display in the east, above the new-leafed trees, and another, then another join.
Here upon Earth
Grant, O Lord, that, in all our sufferings here upon earth for the testimony of thy truth, we may steadfastly look up to heaven, and by faith behold the glory that shall be revealed… —The Book of Common Prayer
From when the daylight rises in the east the world is upon us, the bright sun, the ropes of fog hydrolyzing in the morning air, the frost settled on the eastern slope until the sun climbs fully above the trees. I roll over when sunlight slats through the window, the bright motes sparkling in air, the end of dreams that dog me into daylight, then dissipate like dew in morning air, all the weight of yesterday, the day before, and all the years congealed, coalesced, become reified in this one dawn, this dayrise, this opening of eyes, the wakening, the mad dash of the mind to find the last shadow, the final refuge where field mice hide when the thresher churns its slow but efficient course across the meadow, the chaff glittering in sunlight, the far road that marks the last declension of consciousness hauled from sleep, this last seeping of water welling over the verge, leaking beyond what the stone walls of the well can contain, the roots, the shoots, the inevitable stark rising of the body into light, into everything we mean, good and bad, in health and in sickness, by waking, shaking off sleep, swelling into life.
What To Do When the Minute Hand Won’t Move
Shake the clock. Depress the switch that lights the face. Shake it again. Watch the ceiling till the slight glow seeping through the slats lets you see every item arrayed across the dresser. Pick up the small clock. Shake it. Depress the switch that lights up the dial. Sigh loud enough you have to turn your head and make sure you didn’t sigh loudly enough to wake her, knowing you really wouldn’t mind if you woke her, you’d at least have someone to talk to. Pick up the clock and check the dial, wonder how it can still read 3:22. Shake it. Give in to the Zevon earworm you were fighting just before you finally slipped off the pier of wakefulness into the shallow stream sleep afforded. “Life’ll Kill Ya,” he wrote as though two years before the diagnosis he’d lifted his nose and sniffed approaching mortality, and you wonder if it’s just the stink bugs you smell in the room, the sweat of trying too hard to make sleep come, or whether tomorrow, one of these tomorrows, the wheel will slip under your tired hands just enough the tires carry you off the road, across the shoulder. The tree as big as anything you’ve ever seen, as big as death that stretches all the way from here to well past anywhere you can think to think, and you pick up the clock, shake it, and the minute hand
accelerates and won’t, not for a very long time you hope, stop.
At the Grave of Ezra Pound
It’s nothing special. A granite marker set in the manicured grass, a few flowers. The waterbus was crowded— tourists, mostly, though few spoke English. February wind blew the chilly spume like spikes, a chill that lasted under lowering skies like the dark swirls in the glass blown on Murano. I’d like to say that thoughts of the great Modernist revolution pummeled across my mind. I’d like to say that the complex torment of politics and art replayed itself while I knelt to contemplate the weathered letters, “EZRA POVND,” but how long can you look at a chunk of stone embedded in the earth?
