WEBVTT

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Moving on to the ecology scene.

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I like to think of myself
as a purist in camping

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and I'm oftentimes
irritated by people

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with their campers on the
backs of their pickups

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and their trailers, and they
drive into Forest Service

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campgrounds and
plug themselves in

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and consider that they've
been in the wilderness.

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Well, I'm not naturally
a very bitter man

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but I suppose I could say
that this poem came out

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of the bitterness I feel
about that type of thing.

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And it is really rather
sad these poor people

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think that they have
seen the wilderness.

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"Campers."

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Laboring from the year
uphill, from the great plane

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of their lives, they
drag their entrails

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with the weeks, cicatrix
love, their paraphernalia.

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Finally, the pines
has advertised.

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They groan, the sun
doesn't sting their faces.

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They don't know why.

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And grunting at
nightfall dig the pits,

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line it with a
bear's charred bones.

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Polish his skull, it
glows, they titter.

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Stretch out with weary
beer's flabby legs

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to the lake their footstool.

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Time to go in, to crank
the shutters down.

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Satisfied the rangers go home.

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Well, perhaps over the
next hill at the bottom

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of the next undeveloped
mountain there

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are those few perfectly
alone famished,

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who roll up their jeans for
a pillow stretching and ferns

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among the spiders throw
scrawny arms to the gloom--

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lie there as the
damp night crawls

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from the ravines, mouths
open, waiting for the stars

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to eat their eyes.

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