Flow Chart by John Ashbery

Author:John Ashbery [Ashbery, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781480459090
Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
Published: 2013-11-22T19:43:00+00:00

So the initial exuberance departed. But that was fine, because surely

the beginning of a festival is a nice place to be, if it’s Asia, and more hogs

were brought down. But when he saw the hogs, the owner of the grain elevator was angry

and went out. Now, there were two others who were there. And they were

each determined to get what was coming to them. The master returning, said OK boys,

never let it be said you didn’t ask for it. And in that moment a fuzz of bloom

was on them. Each spring the desert comes alive with birds and flowers,

a breathtaking view at the foot of the famed Superstition Mountains,

reported home of the Lost Dutchman Mine with its still undiscovered caches of gold.

And all around it is nice too. The mineral springs I wanted so much to exploit—what

does any of it matter now, now that I have found my home in a narrow cleft

stained with Indian paintbrush and boar’s blood, from which an avenue eventually leads

to the flatter, more civilized places I have no quarrel with either. After all,

we have to go in once or twice a month to pick up supplies, the few

articles we don’t grow such as coffee, to which I’m still addicted by the way, and

records too from a local music shop, which are important to have—no man

needs to live by his own law in the wilderness after all, but even if he is going

to try it is best not to let the old world slip too casually. Rather it should come about

naturally, without too much fuss or horn tooting. And then, by and by, if he sees

he likes it, why then there is always time to make such decisions later on as regards

one’s insurance, and such, and peter out from there—trickle accurately

into the sand so that each drop is utilized to the max, and then we’ll see

how the desert is improving—only “improve” is a word I don’t want to use too much

either. For after all everything is good of its kind to start with. It’s all a

question only of finding out what the kind is and letting the thing ferment

in its own bile for a few decades. By then

it should become apparent to whoever has been watching how much the land owes us,

and how we re-distribute it wisely, if only we ever stop to think about it. Don’t

you agree? I mean, don’t you see the silhouetted foothills too? How bland and discordant,

yet after all how deeply satisfying in one’s rage—and then too the pods fall off

all at once eventually, and must rot

if the seeds are to get into the ground, providing they are still alive and haven’t rotted too.

So in all ways I think it’s a question of a man coming—he had

a chicken or something on his arm. And when he arrived, the expected salutation

rang out like a shot; people took cover. I don’t mean

I did, though. I stood up to him, just like a man, the man I was, or is, and he, he just

looked back at me, kind of funny and defiant-like, but he wuz saying nothing.

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