Around three years ago on a Colorado trip with my mom I wrote this.

And today in the Rocky Mountain National Park:

Fishing Poem #2
       for zack

"the rough deific sketches"   — Walt Whitman

In the lack of the animate, the inanimate animates.

No one knows the combination and so the locked, sits.
Solitary.

The Civic Engineers and the no public access
and my mother pissed at America for this
is all thats left of America.

The bob bobs
and my eye waters,
the itinerant eyelash.

The road is closed past this point.

Becoming more and more aware
of my energetic states and how
I can manipulate them.

She caught a tree.

She wants me to sit on the rock.

I will sit on the rock.

Once the spider moves.

Read Walt Whitman
out loud & a deer
came by. From afar.
For a minute.

Getting caught in the thrush.

Afraid to sit next to anything leafy for fear
of poison.

She got a bite. We're eating dinner!
But he got away.  With the salmon egg.

Got it off the hook without
getting himself hooked.

She felt the bite.
It wasn't the water.

The bird swoops down toward
the water, grazing. Like
skipping stones.

Ideas are in the past.
Only living is in the present.
Ideas stop the present.

The present is the present.

If I was into Conceptual Photography:
every tree in the Rocky Mountain
National Forest photographed
individually.

"The mountains look like they're moving away"  — kid

(_______) dookie

I hate summer.

Tour van named Arrow.

Good directions that are just good luck.