10 October 2005

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


At October 11, 2005 12:57 am , Anonymous rox. said...

basho...basho...familiar ring to it...didn't he play left tundra for the edmonton trappers?


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