As early as seven
I knew Salmon
would crawl between bark and trunk
in Spring
and become Willow
become
wild.

They were young then
their slim shadows gliding
under my perch
easing out on the fast water
going away.
But I could call their kind as they passed
SALMON

By nine
I’d learned ten precious stones
to cook with the women
number pigeons in flight.

At twelve
I could run down rabbits
dig in the ground
as deep as the rest
sweat with the men.

August ended hot
the water high.
Salmon traps
were set again
wherever the river

bent around.
Sentries
were posted.
That night
I returned
to sleep
with The Willows.
At first light
was already
miles away.

My mouth toughened to a beak.
My skin was resplendent with long silver scales.
Behind me
for miles
their now
heavy bodies
slowly
turning
the hot fish
ready to merge
SALMON.

I counted the nets and traps
counted the waiting
hands and eyes
signaled the first leap.

We slammed against the wood
dove into the nets
tearing them down
tearing it all
til the river was free
and we could stroke
unsheathed
our gills

applauding
each breath
our song
resounding
boulder to boulder
its special chord
reverberating
through the tangled roots
The Willows
as we passed.

I leapt the last trap
past the eyes of the older men
gently nudging
the spent bodies,
my brothers and sisters already
fused to the dense spore.

I came to rest then
in my own time
willingly
on the slick round stones
in that mouth
where our first journey had begun.

So, that October night
I burned the lot. Harry
roasted ribs over your underwear,
squeezed sterno through your pale blue peignoir.
The silver brooch with the fucking horses
scorched sea-green, books by Potter
toasted brown as bees. I saved
the bindle of Caine
and an ounce of Thai weed
(smoked it with the crew from engine 5). Stoned
and waving a hose around the edge,
I thought I saw your face
giggling in the bubbling tar,
your arms
stuffed with pillows and fake amber beads.
If you’re ever back in town,
Germaine’s got your jade earrings
and the locket with cuttings of our pubic hair, be sure
to look me up
I’m generally listed.

for Neil Lehrman

Jus in case I didn mention
I’m from Florida
home a the Seminole-mostly
bullshit
an gators…

You drive the swamp-see big boards advertisin
the prime bouts
it’s the fack
celbrates these parts-
Rasslin Gators

a one time thrill-no shit
got dudes in town
walkin roun
in half their skin
beats cockfights n bullfights all t’hell…

Well, I’m gonna do this tune bout rasslin gators-cep
that alays minds me of another story bout
bein back home fur the cure
drugs n all that shit-I’m
in this center see
where this dude
jacks off every mornin bout 5 am
wakes the whole damn place
humpin and hollerin
like he’s possessed
I swear t’Christ
he never even used his hands
jus humped the goddamn bed
rubbin right through the sheets
like none a us was even there –

I don put down jackin off, fack
I wish we’s all that free-no
it’s that noise, all that thrashin round-almost like he’s
pained ur scared-yeah-like-you got it-like rasslin
like rasslin gators

(After a performance by Sandy Bull 5/20/76)

The toads sing at sundown
long, rhythmic chants
like the clapping of shoes.

Hoot owls light the sky.
Roosters molt in the jack-pine
turning blue.

I camp in the snail’s track. Small
veiled girls seranade my night,
their soft bones turned
fodder for the goats.

The mountains are hardest
trails like polished eyes.

I slake my thirst on the lips of tigers,
rest in the throats of hummingbirds.

                                                        In La Paz
I sell my teeth for beetle’s wings, trade
radios for gunpowder,
assemble bombs.
I visit Beirut.
400 Moslems shit and belch-up fisheyes;
in Terre Haute they crush my hands,
castrate the horse,
flog my mole til his asshole pops;
Dallas buries my tongue,
hangs my skull in dormitory windows.
I keep to the backroads.
My eyes leave a slick trail on your bedroom doors.
Your plumbing’s jammed with my clenched fist.
I’m under your collar
burrowing along your spine.

There are armies
crossing Nebraska.
Armies that fatten on leftover cows
armies so silent and sure
they lumber over the day
unmindful of sweat
forgetting rivers
crossed and recrossed.
I am trailing the army
gouging huge holes in their water bags
clipping the sharp eyes of their bayonets
exhausting their mothers with stories
of past atrocities.
Someone has to follow.
Someone must nip at the wide black haunch.
They are well organized and have learned
the rewards of cutting
everything down.
Everything that grows on its own
is suspect.
No one has survived the wave on wave
of their perfect form.
Even the frogs fall game.
The nights are filled with their music;
They mimic the chords and pipes of human throats.
In Kansas City there are people
already overcome.
In St. Louis there are people of knowledge
catching planes.
In Detroit
no one has even begun to care.