No one even asks what I'm doing these days,
and it's obvious they don't care.
I want to wash my hands of these people;
I come from a family of fist fighters,
and forgiveness is like a cardinal sin.
Fuck, even I'm still bitter about the shit.
Even I still get upset at the thoughts.
My lover wraps her arms around me
and I radiate this bullshit into her.
Sleeping next to me
is dirtier than sleeping
in any grave.
This dirt farmer can't wash his hands or his mind,
he isn't a fist fighter or a loud talker,
he won't let the easy things slide,
and even six feet into this hole,
this dirt farmer is still digging.
Greyness masks the giving sun,
Cool air snakes between my thighs,
Dragonflies alight in heeded flight,
As monsoon floods the paddy's eyes.
I step barefoot on the spongy mud
Which tugs back upon my sole
My journey etched in reddish clay
Mapped out from source to goal.
Winds murmur of a change of plan
And unveil the playful sun.
I put new footprints in my footprints
And begin again where I've begun.
My old pickup fits me like a glove,
The sunset burns through the dry haze
The scrub cedars have about
conquered the west pasture,
but thats a job for next spring
I need to disk up the south 80,
all fallow after the wheat sucked
it dry, but the damn 3-point on the
Allis-Chalmers is leaking again
I remember when I used to have
time to go fishin', that changed when
the bank raised the interest rate
If the early crop comes in, maybe
next summer I can afford new boots