June 15th, 2006

Dearest Boys,
On behalf of your last stretching leg, I have included a poem I wrote about our good ole’ U.S. of Canadian “Eh?”. I hope that you enjoy. It is dedicated to all you silly folk, driving ’round and sitting ’round.


Before Wendy died before time became arduous, before post services
were greeted at my door with grimaces and looks of sulken
anger, before the meloncholy of the trees’ leaves
began to fall, I Murrowed a terrific persona.

Before peeling skin developed a deep passion for the
outdoors, before close friends scolded family members
for inappropriate outspokenness or whatever other
ballyhoo they could erect in their hateful, hurtful
hearts of malice, of darkness, before the lemons of
Eleanora Primket, oldest Princetown mayoress alive,
turned sour, before all this, you once told me,
teacher and friend, chin up and chin out, a
raven is a block of wood, and whatever
other ballyhoo you could consider.

Before then, I hadn’t heard of “Indian Sunrise,”
of rumbling, jungle, I hadn’t seen
the branding of meat for wholesale American wholesale.
Before, I smelled America in wax candleshops and
truck stops with their staff of chicken soup
bowls, pea soup and candy cardboard.
Before Rosenbergy and Rosenthal ate gravel’s metal underbelly, afoot and
airborne, I had only ice-water and plastic-wrapped
oyster crackers.

I hadn’t buttoned-down my plaid Americana,
I hadn’t fit my foot its right size.
Today we meet, myselves, the knowles, plains, gardeners,
ranch-hands, businessmen, suit-beggars, invalids,
immigrants and whores.
We spread jams and drank tea to funeral processions
and bacterium and meter-maids and fields of rice.
We shook hands in the desert, pissed on each other’s
clothes, drunken, familiar tunes in a jukebox
plugged firmly to the back wall-socket.

Danced never clapped, our boats stayed anywhere but still,
and lost in the wide, blackheaded rocky terrain
Appalachia Appalachia, Elysian fields, here we speculate,
listen, for morsels of answers to our America

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