Get Me Up There

Get Me Up There

Get me up there.

I don’t care if the deer flies

bite me. I’ll catch them and

stick pine needles up

their asses so they fly

straight up till they drop.

Get me up there.

I don’t care if I sink

in a bog over my waders.

As long as it’s cool and the

brookies flash at a Renegade,

I’ll watch from a cloud of gnats.

Get me up there.

I’m starting to think

like the drone of lawn mowers.

Down here, the rivers

are full of tourists. I was

once a tourist. It wasn’t any fun.

Get me up there.

Down here, I look like shit

in shorts. My shins are all scars

from fifty years of dodging

deadfall because the stream

up there was worth it.

Get me the up there.

I’ve had it with sprinklers

and stinky dogs. Stick me

in a pickup shotgun, slap

a G & T in my hand

and get me the hell up there.


The FlyFish Journal Mailing List

We respect your time, and only send you the occasional update.