by Jesse Eckerlin
Dreamt that my father wrote an autobiography of his homesteading
days called This is the Place Where our Cat Swims.
“awhhhh!” says i, licking my lips like a religious fanatic: “Scatter
flowers on the sidewalk! Mulch! for the coming season.”
He nods. The soil fertility expert bursts upon the scene and we know
that our worries be warranted. “The two volcanoes had hooves of fur”
says he.
we nod. dad eyes the axe. i shake my head in disapproval. “careful
jack . . . no wrong move you yeller cutthroat . . . ”
(i awake, sweating [bluish lacerations upon my shoulder blades no
less] and scramble over Meaghan in feverish haste chanting:
“notebookism” {and at this hour of the night it’s indecent!}. now I’ve
got them both, and just waiting for a pedestal from which to curse).
The chisels before the chunk of marble this time: backwards.
WILLOWS WEPT REVIEW 