Another ONE

 He didn’t have to visit the Lake Country,

Climb the Fells in search of Wordsworth

Or Coleridge, contemplating the horror

Of the self or the division of addiction.

He knew he could reinvent himself

Every day in the overgrown field

With its sniveling coyotes, graceless

Turkeys, bouncing deer, and surprise

Copperheads even as the pain

Bathed him and he thought of the boy

Blake loose in what he called the

Countryhood, waging innocence

Where the Second Amendment

Commands allegiance. Bukowski

Would have hated the trees and grass

But loved the explosion of

Military grade ordinance.

Who could be lured away

For mere history, for the

Nostalgia that reverences

This savage landscape.

Fuck the joyous romantics

And the English departments

That glorified their sad lives.