And this next poem is called "Directions to the Nomad".
Where we live is out in the middle of 40 acres.
It was an old farm at one time, and it's surrounded by trees.
And we have no real address, so if people come out there,
they're either friends of ours, or they're lost.
And most of the time, they're lost.
And one time, this big dump truck came through,
and he was lost.
He was searching for the old Opportunity
school, which was down behind our place about half a mile.
And they were tearing it down, and he'd
come for the old bricks.
And so he asked me, which way did the old Opportunity school.
And I gave him directions, and he went away.
So I wrote this poem about that.
"Past the school and down this little incline,
you can't miss it.
Tons of bricks and babies blue from the waist down.
Their heads are cheese and loll as though bricks
became their brains.
What's that?
The noble savage-- he's around, spooked and colored by the fish
he eats.
Red for rainbow, blue for the moon.
He instructs stars, but only to the thinnest wolf.
When you get there, tell the mad decaying creep we miss him.
We never meant it.
He'll treat you right, show you plums
the black bear couldn't dream.
One more thing-- if he tries to teach you mountains or whisper
imagined love to the tamarack, tell him you adore him,
then get the hell out--
fast."
[LAUGHTER]