SEPTEMBER 11, 2006
Certain smells won’t wash off.
She’s three, bred at a thousand pounds
to a low birth-weight Angus
and the calf’s breech. One big hoof
swollen – upside down if it’s head first
which it obviously ain’t – protrudes,
but the chute is close-by. A rattley
old Linton too low for today’s cows
to poke their heads through. Just
try to save the heifer. Long pull
with lot’s of stretch – ninety-five
pound black-whiteface bull calf.
Down, a coyote pack
gets her in the night.
I’m so mad. I’m so mad.
I’m mad, I’m mad, I’m mad.
Smoked a half-grown pup
trying to wind me in Section 17.
Too close to focus in the scope,
I squeezed on fuzz. As he folded,
said in my head,
“That’s for Robbie – ”
There is no easy grief
to sort silently into sanity
amidst the primal echoes
of each soliloquy for the dead,
but to hear one’s own voice
in the chorus of hate
becomes alarming.
I undress on the way
to the shower outside
before dusk, lather like
Lady MacBeth and swear
I can hear Eric Clapton
up in the live oaks singing,
I’m so mad. I’m so mad.
I’m mad, I’m Mad, I’m MAD.
More than likely, I will continue to edit this one online as I have some of the other pieces turned-out into cyberspace. Due to it’s timeliness and Robin Bois’ “9/11” insight on the neighboring weblog, I’ve weaned it early. -JCD