No direction home

Caught in space 

threading thru ancient sacred ground

I say to myself

this is Indian territory, brother

and not surprisingly 

I do not feel a thing 

that early in the morning

outside this farmhouse

round the corner of

some Wisconsin field

leading to another wall of silence

soaking wet

puked on by the heavens

for misconduct and falsehood

and thinking of you.

One sure thing, though

in the eye of whatever it’s called

the implosion 

or whatever they call it 

seems rather imminent, darling.           

May 2, 2000, Egg Harbor, Wisconsin