Tuesday, July 7, 2015


She's steady, she's calm. There's isn't anything to
be done that would rattle her or change a plan. I
guess that's good, though it's the opposite of me.
Peripatetic, jumpy, nervous and not sedate. Which 
is always to be worked on, a rather crummy trait. 
As if, for me they've made active verbs; for her, 
pauses and prepositions.
Right now, the sun is rising up over Carlisle Grove -
some ten men are hammering houses as the woods are
slowly brought down. A kid in an old Pontiac hotrod
is crawling the roadway  -  his red tank shimmering
as it shakes its loud noise along. I didn't even know
people did this stuff any more. Well, maybe out here
it's still game. Funny, that Pontiac was  -  a car name
and first an Indian chief, and then a City in Michigan.
If I was a murderer, I'd have hid out in these woods and
all would be cool. Me and the cabin alone  -  like the 
Unibomber until his brother turned him in; like Thoreau, 
sizing up the land  for his claims at peace; like John Muir, 
sick of the rest, and tired. As it is, all I do is stay in five
rooms somewhere, and dream it on  -  making a Kingdom
of my patter, a New World of my words and places.

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