I know you don't believe the title since it's hard for me to sit down and not write 1000 words.
For those following our neighbors' story, they're still in jail and charged with grand larceny, receiving stolen goods and embezzlement. Their bail has been set at $15,000 each. As they have no resources I know of they will likely be partying in the pokey for a while.
Marc Awodey, a poet I mentioned in an earlier blog, sent me a nice e-mail. I learned he's also a visual artist, and in reviewing his work I was reminded of Edward Munch, whose stolen paintings were recently returned to their gallery. Marc's paintings are outstanding and reasonably priced. Go have a gander. Art is the one investment I have never regretted.
Marc also reminisced about earlier days on the net when he was following David Hunter Sutherland around the way I was following Marc in our publishing. To close the circle, David asked me to write a jacket blurb for his first book, Steel Umbrellas, which I did. In the evanescent reality of the web I suppose all three of us used up our fifteen minutes but I'm still milking mine.
Today's poem was written not long ago while hiking a nearby dirt road. For any who wonder what is meant by "growers," I live in Northern California so connect the dots. Recent reports claim the majority of pot farms hidden in the state forests are managed by the Mexican Mafia.
I hear drumming in the woods.
I stop dead. The drumming stops.
Brittle reeds crack underfoot.
Silence. I start walking.
I hear drumming again. I imagine
a circle of growers armed to the teeth
pounding on skins to goad their green
and purple beauties into bloom.
I stop. Again the drumming stops. I turn
my head. Ha! Wind playing my ears!
At 1 kilorat,