En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Part 8 of Trout Fishing in America

A RETURN TO THE COVER OF

THIS BOOK

Dear Trout Fishing in America:

I met your friend Fritz in Washington Square. He told me

to tell you that his case went to a jury and that he was acquit-

ted by the jury.

He said that it was important for me to say that his case

went to a jury and that he was acquitted by the jury,

said it again.

He looked in good shape. He was sitting in the sun. There's

an old San Francisco saying that goes: "It's better to rest in

Washington Square than in the California Adult Authority. "

How are things in New York?

Yours,

"An Ardent Admirer"

Dear Ardent Admirer:

It's good to hear that Fritz isn't in jail. He was very wor-

ried about it. The last time I was in San Francisco, he told

me he thought the odds were 10-1 in favor of him going away.

I told him to get a good lawyer. It appears that he followed

my advice and also was very lucky. That's always a good

combination.

You asked about New York and New York is very hot.

I'm visiting some friends, a young burglar and his wife.

He's unemployed and his wife is working as a cocktail wait-

ress. He's been looking for work but I fear the worst.

It was so hot last night that I slept with a wet sheet wrapped

around myself, trying to keep cool. I felt like a mental patient.

I woke up in the middle of the night and the room was filled

with steam rising off the sheet, and there was jungle stuff,

abandoned equipment and tropical flowers, on the floor and

on the furniture.

I took the sheet into the bathroom and plopped it into the

tub and turned the cold water on it. Their dog came in and

started barking at me.

The dog barked so loud that the bathroom was soon filled

with dead people. One of them wanted to use my wet sheet

for a shroud. I said no, and we got into a big argument over

it and woke up the Puerto Ricans in the next apartment, and

they began pounding on the walls.

The dead people all left in a huff. "We know when we're

not wanted, " one of them said.

"You're damn tootin'," I said.

I've had enough.

I' m going to get out of New York. Tomorrow I'm leaving for

Alaska. I'm going to find an ice-cold creek near the Arctic

where that strange beautiful moss grows and spend a week

with the grayling. My address will be, Trout Fishing in Ameri-

ca, c/o General Delivery, Fairbanks, Alaska.

Your friend,

Trout Fishing in America

THE LAKE JOSEPHUS DAYS

We left Little Redfish for Lake Josephus, traveling along the

good names--from Stanley to Capehorn to Seafoam to the

Rapid River, up Float Creek, past the Greyhound Mine and

then to Lake Josephus, and a few days after that up the trail

to Hell-diver Lake with the baby on my shoulders and a good

limit of trout waiting in Hell-diver.

Knowing the trout would wait there like airplane tickets

for us to come, we stopped at Mushroom Springs and had a

drink of cold shadowy water and some photographs taken of

the baby and me sitting together on a log.

I hope someday we'll have enough money to get those pic-

tures developed. Sometimes I get curious about them, won-

dering if they will turn out all right. They are in suspension

now like seeds in a package. I'll be older when they are de-

veloped and easier to please. Look there's the baby ! Look

there's Mushroom Springs ! Look there's me !

I caught the limit of trout within an hour of reaching Hell-

diver, and my woman, in all the excitement of good fishing,

let the baby fall asleep directly in the sun and when the baby

woke up, she puked and I carried her back down the trail.

My woman trailed silently behind, carrying the rods and

the fish. The baby puked a couple more times, thimblefuls

of gentle lavender vomit, but still it got on my clothes, and

her face was hot and flushed.

We stopped at Mushroom Springs. I gave her a small

drink of water, not too much, and rinsed the vomit taste out

of her mouth. Then I wiped the puke off my clothes and for

some strange reason suddenly it was a perfect time, there

at Mushroom Springs, to wonder whatever happened to the

Zoot suit.

Along with World War II and the Andrews Sisters, the

Zoot suit had been very popular in the early 40s. I guess

they were all just passing fads.

A sick baby on the trail down from Hell-diver, July 1961,

is probably a more important question. It cannot be left to

go on forever, a sick baby to take her place in the galaxy,

among the comets, bound to pass close to the earth every

173 years.

She stopped puking after Mushroom Springs, and I carried

her back down along the path in and out of the shadows and

across other nameless springs, and by the time we got down

to Lake Josephus, she was all right.

She was soon running around with a big cutthroat trout in

her hands, carrying it like a harp on her way to a concert--

ten minutes late with no bus in sight and no taxi either

poem by Richard Brautigan
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The Lake Josephus Days

We left Little Redfish for Lake Josephus, traveling along the good names — from Stanley to Capehorn to Seafoam to the Rapid River, up Float Creek, past the Greyhound Mine and then to Lake Josephus, and a few days after that up the trail to Hell-diver Lake with the baby on my shoulders and a good limit of trout waiting in Hell-diver.

Knowing the trout would wait there like airplane tickets for us to come, we stopped at Mushroom Springs and had a drink of cold shadowy water and some photographs taken of the baby and me sitting together on a log.

I hope someday we'll have enough money to get those pictures developed. Sometimes I get curious about them, wondering if they will turn out all right. They are in suspension now like seeds in a package. I'll be older when they are developed and easier to please. Look there's the baby! Look there's Mushroom Springs! Look there's me!

I caught the limit of trout within an hour of reaching Hell-diver, and my woman, in all the excitement of good fishing, let the baby fall asleep directly in the sun and when the baby woke up, she puked and I carried her back down the trail.

My woman trailed silently behind, carrying the rods and the fish. The baby puked a couple more times, thimblefuls of gentle lavender vomit, but still it got on my clothes, and her face was hot and flushed.

We stopped at Mushroom Springs. I gave her a small drink of water, not too much, and rinsed the vomit taste out of her mouth. Then I wiped the puke off my clothes and for some strange reason suddenly it was a perfect time, there at Mushroom Springs, to wonder whatever happened to the Zoot suit.

Along with World War II and the Andrews Sisters, the Zoot suit had been very popular in the early 40s. I guess they were all just passing fads.

A sick baby on the trail down from Hell-diver, July 1961, is probably a more important question. It cannot be left to go on forever, a sick baby to take her place in the galaxy, among the comets, bound to pass close to the earth every 173 years.

She stopped puking after Mushroom Springs, and I carried her back down along the path in and out of the shadows and across other nameless springs, and by the time we got down to Lake Josephus, she was all right.

She was soon running around with a big cutthroat trout in her hands, carrying it like a harp on her way to a concert — ten minutes late with no bus in sight and no taxi either.

poem by Richard Brautigan
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Part 4 of Trout Fishing in America

THE AUTOPSY OF

TROUT FISHING IN AMERICA

This is the autopsy of Trout Fishing in America as if Trout

Fishing in America had been Lord Byron and had died in

Missolonghi, Greece, and afterward never saw the shores

of Idaho again, never saw Carrie Creek, Worsewick Hot

Springs, Paradise Creek, Salt Creek and Duck Lake again.

The Autopsy of Trout Fishing in America:

"The body was in excellent state and appeared as one that

had died suddenly of asphyxiation. The bony cranial vault

was opened and the bones of the cranium were found very

hard without any traces of the sutures like the bones of a

person 80 years, so much so that one would have said that

the cranium was formed by one solitary bone. . . . The

meninges were attached to the internal walls of the cranium

so firmly that while sawing the bone around the interior to

detach the bone from the dura the strength of two robust men

was not sufficient. . . . The cerebrum with cerebellum

weighed about six medical pounds. The kidneys were very

large but healthy and the urinary bladder was relatively

small. "

On May 2, 1824, the body of Trout Fishing in America

left Missolonghi by ship destined to arrive in England on the

evening of June 29, 1824.

Trout Fishing in America's body was preserved in a cask

holding one hundred-eighty gallons of spirits: 0, a long way

from Idaho, a long way from Stanley Basin, Little Redfish

Lake, the Big Lost River and from Lake Josephus and the

Big Wood River.

poem by Richard Brautigan
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Part 10 of Trout Fishing in America

WITNESS FOR TROUT FISHING

IN AMERICA PEACE

In San Francisco around Easter time last year, they had a

trout fishing in America peace parade. They had thousands

of red stickers printed and they pasted them on their small

foreign cars, and on means of national communication like

telephone poles.

The stickers had WITNESS FOR TROUT FISHING IN AM-

ERICA PEACE printed on them.

Then this group of college- and high-school-trained Com-

munists, along with some Communist clergymen and their

Marxist-taught children, marched to San Francisco from

Sunnyvale, a Communist nerve center about forty miles away.

It took them four days to walk to San Francisco. They

stopped overnight at various towns along the way, and slept

on the lawns of fellow travelers.

They carried with them Communist trout fishing in Ameri-

ca peace propaganda posters:

"DON'T DROP AN H-BOMB ON THE OLD FISHING HOLE I"

"ISAAC WALTON WOULD'VE HATED THE BOMB!"

"ROYAL COACHMAN, SI! ICBM, NO!"

They carried with them many other trout fishing in Amer-

ica peace inducements, all following the Communist world

conquest line: the Gandhian nonviolence Trojan horse.

When these young, hard-core brainwashed members of

the Communist conspiracy reached the "Panhandle, " the

emigre Oklahoma Communist sector of San Francisco, thou-

sands of other Communists were waiting for them. These

were Communists who couldn't walk very far. They barely

had enough strength to make it downtown.

Thousands of Communists, protected by the police, marched

down to Union Square, located in the very heart of San Fran-

cisco. The Communist City Hall riots in 1960 had presented

evidence of it, the police let hundreds of Communists escape,

but the trout fishing in America peace parade was the final

indictment: police protection.

Thousands of Communists marched right into the heart of

San Francisco, and Communist speakers incited them for

hours and the young people wanted to blow up Colt Tower, but

the Communist clergy told them to put away their plastic

bombs.

"Therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men should

do to you, do ye even so to them . . . There will be no need

for explosives, " they said.

America needs no other proof. The Red shadow of the

Gandhian nonviolence Trojan horse has fallen across Ameri-

ca, and San Francisco is its stable.

Obsolete is the mad rapist's legendary piece of candy. At

this very moment, Communist agents are handing out Witness

for trout fishing in America peace tracts to innocent children

riding the cable cars.

poem by Richard Brautigan
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Part 5 of Trout Fishing in America

WORSEWICK

Worsewick Hot Springs was nothing fancy. Somebody put some

boards across the creek. That was it.

The boards dammed up the creek enough to form a huge

bathtub there, and the creek flowed over the top of the boards,

invited like a postcard to the ocean a thousand miles away.

As I said Worsewick was nothing fancy, not like the

places where the swells go. There were no buildings around.

We saw an old shoe lying by the tub.

The hot springs came down off a hill and where they flowed

there was a bright orange scum through the sagebrush. The

hot springs flowed into the creek right there at the tub and

that' s where it was nice.

We parked our car on the dirt road and went down and took

off our clothes, then we took off the baby's clothes, and the

deerflies had at us until we got into the water, and then they

stopped.

There was a green slime growing around the edges of the

tub and there were dozens of dead fish floating in our bath.

Their bodies had been turned white by death, like frost on

iron doors. Their eyes were large and stiff.

The fish had made the mistake of going down the creek too

far and ending up in hot water, singing, "When you lose your

money, learn to lose."

We played and relaxed in the water. The green slime and

the dead fish played and relaxed with us and flowed out over

us and entwined themselves about us.

Splashing around in that hot water with my woman, I began

to get ideas, as they say. After a while I placed my body in

such a position in the water that the baby could not see my

hard-on.

I did this by going deeper and deeper in the water, like a

dinosaur, and letting the green slime and dead fish cover me

over.

My woman took the baby out of the water and gave her a

bottle and put her back in the car. The baby was tired. It was

really time for her to take a nap.

My woman took a blanket out of the car and covered up the

windows that faced the hot springs. She put the blanket ontop

of the car and then lay rocks on the blanket to hold it in place.

I remember her standing there by the car.

Then she came back to the water, and the deerflies were

at her, and then it was my turn. After a while she said, "I

don't have my diaphragm with me and besides it wouldn't

work in the water, anyway. I think it's a good idea if you

don't come inside me. What do you think?"

I thought this over and said all right. I didn't want any

more kids for a long time. The green slime and dead fish

were all about our bodies.

I remember a dead fish floated under her neck. I waited

for it to come up on the other side, and it came up on the

other side.

Worsewick was nothing fancy.

Then I came, and just cleared her in a split secondlike

an airplane in the movies, pulling out of a nosedive and sail-

ing over the roof of a school.

My sperm came out into the water, unaccustomed to the

light, and instantly it became a misty, stringy kind of thing

and swirled out like a falling star, and I saw a dead fishcome

forward and float into my sperm, bending it in the middle.

His eyes were stiff like iron.

poem by Richard Brautigan
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Part 6 of Trout Fishing in America

THE HUNCHBACK TROUT

The creek was made narrow by little green trees that grew

too close together. The creek was like 12, 845 telephone

booths in a row with high Victorian ceilings and all the doors

taken off and all the backs of the booths knocked out.

Sometimes when I went fishing in there, I felt just like a

telephone repairman, even though I did not look like one. I

was only a kid covered with fishing tackle, but in some

strange way by going in there and catching a few trout, I

kept the telephones in service. I was an asset to society.

It was pleasant work, but at times it made me uneasy.

It could grow dark in there instantly when there were some

clouds in the sky and they worked their way onto the sun.

Then you almost needed candles to fish by, and foxfire in

your reflexes.

Once I was in there when it started raining. It was dark

and hot and steamy. I was of course on overtime. I had that

going in my favor. I caught seven trout in fifteen minutes.

The trout in those telephone booths were good fellows.

There were a lot of young cutthroat trout six to nine inches

long, perfect pan size for local calls. Sometimes there

were a few fellows, eleven inches or so--for the long dis-

tance calls.

I've always liked cutthroat trout. They put up a good fight,

running against the bottom and then broad jumping. Under

their throats they fly the orange banner of Jack the Ripper.

Also in the creek were a few stubborn rainbow trout, sel-

dom heard from, but there all the same, like certified pub-

lic accountants. I'd catch one every once in a while. They

were fat and chunky, almost as wide as they were long. I've

heard those trout called "squire" trout.

It used to take me about an hour to hitchhike to that creek.

There was a river nearby. The river wasn't much. The creek

was where I punched in. Leaving my card above the clock

I'd punch out again when it was time to go home.

I remember the afternoon I caught the hunchback trout.

A farmer gave me a ride in a truck. He picked me up at

a traffic signal beside a bean field and he never said a word

to me.

His stopping and picking me up and driving me down the

road was as automatic a thing to him as closing the barn

door, nothing need be said about it, but still I was in motion

traveling thirty-five miles an hour down the road, watching

houses and groves of trees go by, watching chickens and

mailboxes enter and pass through my vision.

Then I did not see any houses for a while. "This is where

I get out, " I said.

The farmer nodded his head. The truck stopped.

"Thanks a lot, " I said.

The farmer did not ruin his audition for the Metropolitan

Opera by making a sound. He just nodded his head again.

The truck started up. He was the original silent old farmer.

A little while later I was punching in at the creek. I put

my card above the clock and went into that long tunnel of

telephone booths.

I waded about seventy-three telephone booths in. I caught

two trout in a little hole that was like a wagon wheel. It was

one of my favorite holes, and always good for a trout or two.

I always like to think of that hole as a kind of pencil

sharpener. I put my reflexes in and they came back out with

a good point on them. Over a period of a couple of years, I

must have caught fifty trout in that hole, though it was only

as big as a wagon wheel.

I was fishing with salmon eggs and using a size 14 single

egg hook on a pound and a quarter test tippet. The two trout

lay in my creel covered entirely by green ferns ferns made

gentle and fragile by the damp walls of telephone booths.

The next good place was forty-five telephone booths in.

The place was at the end of a run of gravel, brown and slip-

pery with algae. The run of gravel dropped off and disap-

peared at a little shelf where there were some white rocks.

One of the rocks was kind of strange. It was a flat white

rock. Off by itself from the other rocks, it reminded me

of a white cat I had seen in my childhood.

The cat had fallen or been thrown off a high wooden side-

walk that went along the side of a hill in Tacoma, Washing-

ton. The cat was lying in a parking lot below.

The fall had not appreciably helped the thickness of the

cat, and then a few people had parked their cars on the cat.

Of course, that was a long time ago and the cars looked dif-

ferent from the way they look now.

You hardly see those cars any more. They are the old

cars. They have to get off the highway because they can't

keep up.

That flat white rock off by itself from the other rocks

reminded me of that dead cat come to lie there in the creek,

among 12, 845 telephone booths.

I threw out a salmon egg and let it drift down over that

rock and WHAM! a good hit! and I had the fish on and it ran

hard downstream, cutting at an angle and staying deep and

really coming on hard, solid and uncompromising, and then

the fish jumped and for a second I thought it was a frog. I'd

never seen a fish like that before.

God-damn ! What the hell!

The fish ran deep again and I could feel its life energy

screaming back up the line to my hand. The line felt like

sound. It was like an ambulance siren coming straight at

me, red light flashing, and then going away again and then

taking to the air and becoming an air-raid siren.

The fish jumped a few more times and it still looked like

a frog, but it didn't have any legs. Then the fish grew tired

and sloppy, and I swung and splashed it up the surface of

the creek and into my net.

The fish was a twelve-inch rainbow trout with a huge hump

on its back. A hunchback trout. The first I'd ever seen. The

hump was probably due to an injury that occurred when the

trout was young. Maybe a horse stepped on it or a tree fell

over in a storm or its mother spawned where they were

building a bridge.

There was a fine thing about that trout. I only wish I could

have made a death mask of him. Not of his body though, but

of his energy. I don't know if anyone would have understood

his body. I put it in my creel.

Later in the afternoon when the telephone booths began to

grow dark at the edges, I punched out of the creek and went

home. I had that hunchback trout for dinner. Wrapped in

cornmeal and fried in butter, its hump tasted sweet as the

kisses of Esmeralda.

poem by Richard Brautigan
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Part 2 of Trout Fishing in America

ANOTHER METHOD

OF MAKING WALNUT CATSUP

And this is a very small cookbook for Trout Fishing in America

as if Trout Fishing in America were a rich gourmet and

Trout Fishing in America had Maria Callas for a girlfriend

and they ate together on a marble table with beautiful candles.

Compote of Apples

Take a dozen of golden pippins, pare them

nicely and take the core out with a small

penknife; put them into some water, and

let them be well scalded; then take a little

of the water with some sugar, and a few

apples which may be sliced into it, and

let the whole boil till it comes to a syrup;

then pour it over your pippins, and garnish

them with dried cherries and lemon-peel

cut fine. You must take care that your

pippins are not split.

And Maria Callas sang to Trout Fishing in America as

they ate their apples together.

A Standing Crust for Great Pies

Take a peck of flour and six pounds of butter

boiled in a gallon of water: skim it off into

the flour, and as little of the liquor as you

can. Work it up well into a paste, and then

pull it into pieces till it is cold. Then make

it up into what form you please.

And Trout Fishing in America smiled at Maria Callas as

they ate their pie crust together.

A Spoonful Pudding

Take a spoonful of flour, a spoonful of

cream or milk, an egg, a little nutmeg,

ginger, and salt. Mix all together, and

boil it in a little wooden dish half an hour.

If you think proper you may add a few

currants .

And Trout Fishing in America said, "The moon's coming

out." And Maria Callas said, "Yes, it is."

Another Method of Making Walnut Catsup

Take green walnuts before the shell is

formed, and grind them in a crab-mill,

or pound them in a marble mortar.

Squeeze out the juice through a coarse

cloth, and put to every gallon of juice

a pound of anchovies, and the same

quantity of bay-salt, four ounces of

Jamaica pepper, two of long and two of

black pepper; of mace, cloves, and

ginger, each an ounce, and a stick of

horseradish. Boil all together till

reduced to half the quantity, and then

put it into a pot. When it is cold, bottle

it close, and in three months it will be

fit for use.

And Trout Fishing in America and Maria Callas poured

walnut catsup on their hamburgers.

PROLOGUE TO GRIDER CREEK

Mooresville, Indiana, is the town that John Dillinger came

from, and the town has a John Dillinger Museum. You can

go in and look around.

Some towns are known as the peach capital of America or

the cherry capital or the oyster capital, and there's always

a festival and the photograph of a pretty girl in a bathing suit.

Mooresville, Indiana, is the John Dillinger capital of America.

Recently a man moved there with his wife, and he discovered

hundreds of rats in his basement. They were huge, slowmoving

child-eyed rats.

When his wife had to visit some of her relatives for a few

days, the man went out and bought a .38 revolver and a lot

of ammunition. Then he went down to the basement where

the rats were, and he started shooting them. It didn't bother

the rats at all. They acted as if it were a movie and started

eating their dead companions for popcorn.

The man walked over to a rat that was busy eating a friend

and placed the pistol against the rat's head. The rat did not

move and continued eating away. When the hammer clicked

back, the rat paused between bites and looked out of the corner

of its eye. First at the pistol and then at the man. It was a kind

of friendly look as if to say, "When my mother was young she

sang like Deanna Durbin. "

The man pulled the trigger.

He had no sense of humor.

There's always a single feature, a double feature and an

eternal feature playing at the Great Theater in Mooresville,

Indiana: the John Dillinger capital of America.

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The Gardener LXXV: At Midnight

At midnight the would-be ascetic
announced:
"This is the time to give up my
home and seek for God. Ah, who has
held me so long in delusion here?"
God whispered, "I," but the ears
of the man were stopped.
With a baby asleep at her breast
lay his wife, peacefully sleeping on
one side of the bed.
The man said, "Who are ye that
have fooled me so long?"
The voice said again, "They are
God," but he heard it not.
The baby cried out in its dream,
nestling close to its mother.
God commanded, "Stop, fool, leave
not thy home," but still he heard not.
God sighed and complained, "Why
does my servant wander to seek me,
forsaking me?"

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Ding Dong

By Rosina Christetti
Ding dong, Ding dong,
There goes the Gong,
Dick, come along,
'Tis time for dinner.
Wash your face,
Take your place.
Where's your grace,
You little sinner?
"Like an apple?"
"Yes I should.
Nice, nice, nicey!
Good, good, good!"

"Manners, miss,
Please behave.
Those who ask,
Shan't have."

"Those who don't,
Don't want.
I'll eat it,
You shan't."

Baby cry,
Wipe his eye.
Baby good,
Give him food.
Baby sleepy,
Go to bed.
Baby naughty,
Smack his head!

Poor little thrush,
Found dead in a bush!
When did he die?
He is rather high.
Bury him deep,
He won't keep.
Bury him well,
Or he'll smell.

What have horns? Cows and moons.
What have crests? Cocks and spoons.
What are nice? Ducks and peas.
What are nasty? Bites of fleas.
What are fast? Tides and times.
What are slow? Nursery rhymes.

poem by Arthur Clement Hilton
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A True Account of Talking to the Sun on Fire Island

The Sun woke me this morning loud
and clear, saying "Hey! I've been
trying to wake you up for fifteen
minutes. Don't be so rude, you are
only the second poet I've ever chosen
to speak to personally

so why
aren't you more attentive? If I could
burn you through the window I would
to wake you up. I can't hang around
here all day."

"Sorry, Sun, I stayed
up late last night talking to Hal."

"When I woke up Mayakovsky he was
a lot more prompt" the Sun said
petulantly. "Most people are up
already waiting to see if I'm going
to put in an appearance."

I tried
to apologize "I missed you yesterday."
"That's better" he said. "I didn't
know you'd come out." "You may be
wondering why I've come so close?"
"Yes" I said beginning to feel hot
wondering if maybe he wasn't burning me
anyway.

"Frankly I wanted to tell you
I like your poetry. I see a lot
on my rounds and you're okay. You may
not be the greatest thing on earth, but
you're different. Now, I've heard some
say you're crazy, they being excessively
calm themselves to my mind, and other
crazy poets think that you're a boring
reactionary. Not me.

Just keep on
like I do and pay no attention. You'll
find that people always will complain
about the atmosphere, either too hot
or too cold too bright or too dark, days
too short or too long.

If you don't appear
at all one day they think you're lazy
or dead. Just keep right on, I like it.

And don't worry about your lineage
poetic or natural. The Sun shines on
the jungle, you know, on the tundra
the sea, the ghetto. Wherever you were
I knew it and saw you moving. I was waiting
for you to get to work.

And now that you
are making your own days, so to speak,
even if no one reads you but me
you won't be depressed. Not
everyone can look up, even at me. It
hurts their eyes."
"Oh Sun, I'm so grateful to you!"

"Thanks and remember I'm watching. It's
easier for me to speak to you out
here. I don't have to slide down
between buildings to get your ear.
I know you love Manhattan, but
you ought to look up more often.

And
always embrace things, people earth
sky stars, as I do, freely and with
the appropriate sense of space. That
is your inclination, known in the heavens
and you should follow it to hell, if
necessary, which I doubt.

Maybe we'll
speak again in Africa, of which I too
am specially fond. Go back to sleep now
Frank, and I may leave a tiny poem
in that brain of yours as my farewell."

"Sun, don't go!" I was awake
at last. "No, go I must, they're calling
me."
"Who are they?"

Rising he said "Some
day you'll know. They're calling to you
too." Darkly he rose, and then I slept.

poem by Frank O'Hara
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Florentine Pilgrim

"I'll do the old dump in a day,"
He told me in his brittle way.
"Two more, I guess, I'll give to Rome
Before I hit the trail for home;
But while I'm there I kindo' hope
To have an audience with the Pope."

We stood upon the terraced height
With sunny Florence in our sight.
I gazed and gazed, too moved to speak
Until he queried: "What's that creek?"
"The Arno, sir," I said surprised;
He stared at it with empty eyes.

"It is," said I, "the storied stream
Where Dante used to pace and dream,
And wait for Beatrice to pass."
(Oh how I felt a silly ass
Explaining this.) With eyes remote
He asked: "Was Beatrice a boat?"

Then tranced by far Fiesole
Softly I sought to steal away;
But his adhesiveness was grim,
I could not pry apart from him:
And so in our hotel-ward walk
Meekly I listened to his talk.

"Bologna! Say, the lunch was swell;
Them wops know how to feed you well.
Verona! There I met a blonde"
Oh how that baby could respond!
Siena! That's the old burg where
We soused on Asti in the square.

"Antiquity! Why, that's the bunk -
Statues and all that mouldy junk
Will never get you anywhere . . .
My line is ladies' underware,
And better than a dozen Dantes
Is something cute in female scanties. . . .

"One day in Florence is too small
You think, maybe, to see it all.
Well, it don't matter what you've seen -
The thing is: you can say you've been."

poem by Robert William Service
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First things first for my friend Ben

The moon is shining on the lake
where trout are rising after flies
this tells me that it’s time to fish.

The gentle art of casting flies
correctly as my father taught,
has filled full many a supper dish

A trout that’s fried in bacon grease
Has a unique taste all its own,
If I were hungry I would wish.

For a fresh trout upon my plate
A feast I would appreciate.
But first you have to catch your fish.

28-May-07

poem by Ivor .e Hogg
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My Friend, The Parking Lot Attendant

—he's a dandy
—small moustache
—usually sucking on a cigar

he tends to lean into cars as he
transacts business

first time I met him, he said,
"hey! ya gonna make a
killin'?"

"maybe," I answered.

next meeting it was:
"hey, Ramrod! what's
happening?"

"very little," I told
him.

next time I had my girlfriend with me
and he just
grinned.

next time I was
alone.

"hey," he asked, "where's the young
chick?"

"I left her at home...."

"Bullshit! I'll bet she dumped
you!"

and the next time
he really leaned into the car:

"what's a guy like you doing driving a
BMW! I'll bet you inherited your
money, you didn't get this car with your
brains!"

"how'd you guess?" I
answered.

that was some weeks ago.
I haven't seen him lately.
feIlow like that, chances are he just moved on
to better
things.

poem by Charles Bukowski
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Bottled Up Horny Christian

3
times
in
4
years &
1 of those times brought on the little boy whom she spends most of her time taking care of these days
(that is, after all, the reason her man married her-for her child rearing capability)
and she thinks this second sexless marriage
brings with it the security that the first marriage did not
(first guy & her went at it like bunnies until he started finding other bunnies as well) -
the making of constant whoopee that came with the first guy
is secretly missed,
even if she wasn't the only one that had been tickling his pickle-
still, it is hard to ignore the long stretches of time that her "faithful" husband is gone
with his phone turned off,
or just left on the kitchen table, as if he had been out of the house in an awful rush &
when the baby is asleep &
she's masturbating alone
(well, she still has "jesus, " right? -that strapping young fictional character) ,
she wonders just what she did
for "god" to condemn her in such a way,
as certainly this choice was hers alone,
but everyone that raised her told her that if she followed the ways of the bible,
that if she didn't cheat on her husband &
that if she was a good wife,
then things would be ok for her-that "god" would provide-
but would "god" provide her orgasms?

she knows that if she even so much as asks where her husband has been
that said good christian man will make her wish that she hadn't &
that is why she doesn't-
instead, she just moans alone by the grace of "god, " until she gets off &
then feels guilty about having had any pleasure at all-
she knows that when the next time rolls around that the family goes to church,
that she will look good playing the roll of the dutiful wife,
wound tight in her gingham dress & smiling at her husband
who is smiling at some other church whore-
all the time pent up & about to explode from such relentless sexual
craving, wondering if she'll ever have sex again,
telling her close friends that she doesn't even think about it much,
that her hands are full with the baby-
putting on the best show of her life, daily,
she obviously missed her true calling in life-
she would've made a great actress.

poem by Andrew Delapruch
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The New Mistress

"Oh, sick I am to see you, will you never let me be?
You may be good for something, but you are not good for me.
Oh, go where you are wanted, for you are not wanted here.
And that was all the farewell when I parted from my dear.

"I will go where I am wanted, to a lady born and bred
Who will dress me free for nothing in a uniform of red;
She will not be sick to see me if I only keep it clean:
I will go where I am wanted for a soldier of the Queen.

"I will go where I am wanted, for the sergeant does not mind;
He may be sick to see me but he treats me very kind:
He gives me beer and breakfast and a ribbon for my cap,
And I never knew a sweetheart spend her money on a chap.

"I will go where I am wanted, where there's room for one or two,
And the men are none too many for the work there is to do;
Where the standing line wears thinner and the dropping dead lie thick;
And the enemies of England they shall see me and be sick."

poem by Alfred Edward Housman
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Duluth 1996

It was the summer of 1996,
I drove to Duluth with fellow Czechoslovakian.
We stayed at hotel and I drank red wine,
danced on the table, I had a fun time.
Drove around downtown,
College nightclub is what we found.
I wore some scarves, which wrapped around, around my waist,
It looked fashionable and in good taste.
Everyone on dance floor watched my scarves
they saw how it began wrapping around my arms.
College girls started dancing like me,
I was surrounded by ton of girls in a sorority,
"I Wish I had Jessie's Girl" was the song I danced to,
College kids watched me with all my moves.
When I left they all said "She's leaving! "
my friend told me and I'm not kidding.
Now Duluth is beautiful in the summer and the fall,
The "bird watcher" visit and photograph it all.
Lake Superior also has ships large and great,
Lake Superior keeps Duluth warm in winter
and cool in summer never higher than 88.
I will go back someday, before I'm old and grey.

Written by Suzae Chevalier on August 24,2011
www.purplepoems.com www.puppitlady.com

poem by Suzae Chevalier
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Part 1 of Trout Fishing in America

THE COVER FOR

TROUT FISHING IN AMERICA

The cover for Trout Fishing in America is a photograph taken

late in the afternoon, a photograph of the Benjamin Franklin

statue in San Francisco's Washington Square.

Born 1706--Died 1790, Benjamin Franklin stands on a

pedestal that looks like a house containing stone furniture.

He holds some papers in one hand and his hat in the other.

Then the statue speaks, saying in marble:

PRESENTED BY

H. D. COGSWELL

TO OUR

BOYS AND GIRLS

WHO WILL SOON

TAKE OUR PLACES

AND PASS ON.

Around the base of the statue are four words facing the

directions of this world, to the east WELCOME, to the west

WELCOME, to the north WELCOME, to the south WELCOME.

Just behind the statue are three poplar trees, almost leafless

except for the top branches. The statue stands in front

of the middle tree. All around the grass is wet from the

rains of early February.

In the background is a tall cypress tree, almost dark like

a room. Adlai Stevenson spoke under the tree in 1956, before

a crowd of 40, 000 people.

There is a tall church across the street from the statue

with crosses, steeples, bells and a vast door that looks like

a huge mousehole, perhaps from a Tom and Jerry cartoon,

and written above the door is 'Per L'Universo.'

Around five o'clock in the afternoon of my cover for

Trout Fishing in America, people gather in the park across

the street from the church and they are hungry.

It's sandwich time for the poor.

But they cannot cross the street until the signal is given.

Then they all run across the street to the church and get

their sandwiches that are wrapped in newspaper. They go

back to the park and unwrap the newspaper and see what their

sandwiches are all about.

A friend of mine unwrapped his sandwich one afternoon

and looked inside to find just a leaf of spinach. That was all.

Was it Kafka who learned about America by reading the

autobiography of Benjamin Franklin..............

Kafka who said, 'I like the Americans because they are healthy

and optimistic.'

poem by Richard Brautigan
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Another Acrostic ( In the style of Father William )

"Are you deaf, Father William!" the young man said,
"Did you hear what I told you just now?
"Excuse me for shouting! Don't waggle your head
"Like a blundering, sleepy old cow!
"A little maid dwelling in Wallington Town,
"Is my friend, so I beg to remark:
"Do you think she'd be pleased if a book were sent down
"Entitled 'The Hunt of the Snark?'"

"Pack it up in brown paper!" the old man cried,
"And seal it with olive-and-dove.
"I command you to do it!" he added with pride,
"Nor forget, my good fellow to send her beside
"Easter Greetings, and give her my love."

poem by Lewis Carroll
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The ABC

'Twas midnight in the schoolroom
And every desk was shut
When suddenly from the alphabet
Was heard a loud "Tut-Tut!"

Said A to B, "I don't like C;
His manners are a lack.
For all I ever see of C
Is a semi-circular back!"

"I disagree," said D to B,
"I've never found C so.
From where I stand he seems to be
An uncompleted O."

C was vexed, "I'm much perplexed,
You criticise my shape.
I'm made like that, to help spell Cat
And Cow and Cool and Cape."

"He's right" said E; said F, "Whoopee!"
Said G, "'Ip, 'Ip, 'ooray!"
"You're dropping me," roared H to G.
"Don't do it please I pray."

"Out of my way," LL said to K.
"I'll make poor I look ILL."
To stop this stunt J stood in front,
And presto! ILL was JILL.

"U know," said V, "that W
Is twice the age of me.
For as a Roman V is five
I'm half as young as he."

X and Y yawned sleepily,
"Look at the time!" they said.
"Let's all get off to beddy byes."
They did, then "Z-z-z."

poem by Spike Milligan
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You're right—

234

You're right—"the way is narrow"—
And "difficult the Gate"—
And "few there be"—Correct again—
That "enter in—thereat"—

'Tis Costly—So are purples!
'Tis just the price of Breath—
With but the "Discount" of the Grave—
Termed by the Brokers—"Death"!

And after that—there's Heaven—
The Good Man's—"Dividend"—
And Bad Men—"go to Jail"—
I guess—

poem by Emily Dickinson
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Threatening Signs

IF Venus in the evening sky
Is seen in radiant majesty,
If rod-like comets, red as blood,
Are 'mongst the constellations view'd,
Out springs the Ignoramus, yelling:
"The star's exactly o'er my dwelling!
What woeful prospect, ah, for me!
Then calls his neighbour mournfully:
"Behold that awful sign of evil,
Portending woe to me, poor devil!
My mother's asthma ne'er will leave her,
My child is sick with wind and fever;
I dread the illness of my wife,
A week has pass'd, devoid of strife,--
And other things have reach'd my ear;
The Judgment Day has come, I fear!"

His neighbour answered: "Friend, you're right!
Matters look very had to-night.
Let's go a street or two, though, hence,
And gaze upon the stars from thence."--
No change appears in either case.
Let each remain then in his place,
And wisely do the best he can,
Patient as any other man.

poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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