Mast

Flakes scattered from a previous culture. Find an outcrop of shapeable stone and there's always the tell-tale evidence of someone having been there before. Temporal reminders. Reading Hesiod, then an obscure Anglo-Saxon text, a gnomic poem that seems as relevant today as it ever could have been. Leaves are changing color and falling. The sumac is spectacular, green and orange, and red seed heads. Clip my way out to the graveyard, first time in months, wearing a hard-hat against the acorns. An odd sense of displacement. Linda, yesterday, was much enamored of my staircase, and I tried to explain the concept of letting the materials speak. Mostly I was incoherent. The finish on the dogwood railing is just the oil from my palms, nothing special. I'll probably not build another set of stairs, as there isn't anywhere to go. That's arrogant, but what I mean is that I can't take the idea of stairs any further, someone else can, leave it to them. Leave all of it to them. I gather a couple of pounds of acorns, shell them, break then into large pieces and put them on to soak; tomorrow I'll make a pot of grits-and-acorns to last the week, breakfast of champions. I don't compete for anyone's favor, I can't muster the steam. The most I can do is put on a pot of acorns to soak. I listen to Bach, "Saint Matthew's Passion", walk to the heart of Low Gap Hollow and get a drink from the spring there, cold and refreshing. Too much vibrato, I can't listen to country music. Too much hair and painted eyebrows. This I know, I miss faces without any make-up, I'd rather the wrinkles of misfortune than the paste of stage make-up. Feels like time for wasting. The here and now. Julie Adams sounds like an angel, an accordion in the background. A talking guitar that sounds like Garcia or Greg Allman. Merry Christmas. There isn't anything stopping it now, rock around the clock. The Hudson river line. Got a reservation on the Hudson River line. Wild thing. I want to know for sure. You make my heart sing. Weary angel. No shame in what I end up being. A recluse listening to acorns on a hot tin roof. Not Bach, but a country yodel, strangely similar. Say one thing and mean another. Mountain top removal seems like a good thing, because it employs people; but It's bad, because it clogs the drainage.