Wallowing in this bloody sty, I cast for fish that pleased my eye (Truly Jehovah`s bow suspends No pots of gold to weight its ends); Only the blood-mouthed rainbow trout Rose to my bait. They flopped about My canvas creel until the moth Corrupted its unstable cloth. A calendar to tell the day; A handkerchief to wave away The gnats; a couch unstuffed with storm Pouching a bottle in one arm; A whiskey bottle full of worms; And bedroom slacks: are these fit terms To mete the worm whose molten rage Boils in the belly of old age? Once fishing was a rabbit`s foot— O wind blow cold, O wind blow hot, Let suns stay in or suns step out: Life danced a jig on the sperm-whale`s spout— The fisher`s fluent and obscene Catches kept his conscience clean. Children, the raging memory drools Over the glory of past pools. Now the hot river, ebbing, hauls Its bloody waters into holes; A grain of sand inside my shoe Mimics the moon that might undo Man and Creation too; remorse, Stinking, has puddled up its source; Here tantrums thrash to a whale`s rage. This is the pot-hole of old age. Is there no way to cast my hook Out of this dynamited brook? The Fisher`s sons must cast about When shallow waters peter out. I will catch Christ with a greased worm, And when the Prince of Darkness stalks My bloodstream to its Stygian term . . . On water the Man-Fisher walks.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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