Trumpeter (1990)
ISSN: 0832-6193
"Bucolic Sketch"
When I moved back to the country They tossed old tires into my head, And fist-crumpled beer cans began to litter my heavy metal sleep... Acid rain is eating at my roots, And my wired dreams are not holding any water. Slowly my claws are growing into the wire mesh, And my body transubstantiates into a toxic garbage dump. Air Force flights are crossing my mind, tearing up the rural peace for practice. The third-growth woods are apathetic And mostly watch the game shows on T.V.; They really want to go to Florida. The fields take on a second job To meet the payments for their tractors. The country road piles into cars To seek relief at shopping malls. (The heart of darkness hooked into a satellite dish To have its nightmares colorized.) Soon they will take me out and dress me up In day-glow vinyl And shoot me for the season— Camouflage turkeys up in arms.
Copyright retained by author(s)
PID: http://hdl.handle.net/10515/sy5r20s82
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