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?