I knew Basho, and you, sir, are no Basho

Deep into the crispy trail
on my cousin's 80 acres
George W. Bush does not exist.


***


A plastic orange ribbon
hangs from a tree branch.
My shoes are caked with bearshit.


***


A thin dead tree
arches over the trail.
I stomp on a wineglass.


***


Beyond the barb wire
across the rolling field
a black cow stares back at me
we clutch our notebooks


***


Grasshoppers hopping all over the place
bouncing off my feet
yearning for Wal-Mart