.:wanderlustmedia+dot+org:.

if i had an oar-
a better pull, feather in each hand
a four-valve rudder of gold in th bush, ah!

it’s a hard row to hoe, run aground
landlocked castaway woken up bare
to tending my garden in this
o, best of possible worlds, doc-

if i had an oar to row, a better stroke
to share with yours, under tangible par-
it might not substantively matter
as much, then, if this thin belly
grow soft regardless of absence-

regard blinded mass or volume
‘tween a rock & a hard place-
a wheeze-frozen maze-chamber’d pump
& a joint-hinge rusted stiff open to cold
shadow blown up jam-jambed flesh
houseboat skirts shake-tinkling
french doorframe glass…

hello hello hello hello
goodbye goodbye goodbye goodbye
that’s all there is
and the leaves/that are green/turn to brown
-paul simon

if i had a hammock
i’d hammock in th mornin’
i’d hammock in th evenin’
all over this…house

if i had a bell…if i had a country
haciendo patria en el exilio interno
ni te cases ni te embarques…
my ideal audience if i let myself spool out is perversely polyglot…into th blue-

eventful fifth run of the week this sunday evening: stung by a little bee on the sweaty wrist under my watch,

then bumped my foot on a rock & took a fall- i must have been amazingly relaxed because i barely got scratched!

must be a good omen…
family meeting tomorrow & meet with the lawyer to sign a contract on wednesday…

…one week later: eventful meeting, shouting match between my bros.
wednesday a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel- & yet…
lonely hallowe’en. no good little witch for me.
on th road between vega baja & san juan every day monday to monday.
monday, thursday & sunday overnights in caparra.
al que no quiera caldo, que le den tres tazas.

sylvia plath: love, love, my season
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