Here’s a poem I just wrote and a photo I took last fall:

Whatever It Is You’re Taking

Palmered hackles on sun-roil owe more

to floatant than this clipped Corgi-hair

body Uncle Mort tied drunk on Schnapps.

How many times have you seen this much

neon green backing howl toward the gullet

of a woozy gold brown that fought like

a side-hooked snorkel-hoser? And it’s

always just before the sun’s fat goldfish starts

hoovering flakes off fall’s cobalt. When your

brass head soft weight keeps freezing up so

you have to stuff it down your waders and

wedge it under your dick to soften it up

is generally when you give up and fish

midges dry between slush and ice hunks

that look like Liberace’s piano until you

take another hit of whatever it is you’re

taking and they look like some glass blower

blew the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

Did someone say spring, or is that just

the sound your five-weight makes when

you cast without ice in your guides?

Stripping a wad of tinsel and chartreuse

marabou where this spring feeds into

chocolate bunny runoff, you can’t see

a foot down, so you sink that far again

into the soft bottom and go in over your

waders while a pissed off kilo of rainbow

arcs up under the pussy willows and snaps

off your Bugger where the currents meet.

Damn, don’t that just deep fry your clams

into fritters, pretty much like when summer

float-trippers start their Suburban shuttle

and you can only see baloney boats and

MacKenzies all the way up God’s green ass?