Mind Fart

Listening to an mp3
I hear my old friend laughing
long hair
and ear-ring
white teeth
and wide smile
rain
falling in the mountains

November on the North Coast

Cold gray slab of cloud
it could be granite
or glacier
sliding frozen, down
from Ontario.

Thirty degrees
and falling
everything sinking
a compressing weight.

Snow crust on the telephone line
looping low over the street
sagging and still.

November
has remembered the Genesee,
turned,
glanced over.

Retreat Ride

The muddy ruts of the cornfield
already cut, mashed and ploughed under,
with occasional stalks amputated at the knee.

An old wreck of a house (now a shack)
with a sag-gut front porch and the roof about to collapse.
All shades of grey in the patched tar-shingle walls
falling into the crumbling morning.

Rounding the bend, sun tumbles through fall leaves of maples
turning into mid-october north-east-colors
and lands on tufts of scrub-grass in a pasture
with black&white/brown&white cows lounging and lazey.
One stands hunched, muscles taut,
pissing gallons into the golden universe.