Wednesday, March 29, 2017


The last frontiersman I ever saw was
running way  -  flee, flee, to the farthest
forest. His way of saying, I guess, all
was over for him. There was a vague
campfire leftover, or the idea of one
anyway. Before the Cleveland Indians,
before the Milwaukee Braves. It was said.
In times that preceded the times we
know : different things in every kettle :
Buffalo eyes, the skins and pelts of
many things. Sell, buy, eat, or trade. 
One side, that new frontiersman 
running, and, on the other, those 
old Injun guys, and just as running.
Scalps and fields of murder all the
same. Smoke signals of a bad intent?
I just don't know; ask Chief Pontiac.

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