Tuesday, September 12, 2006

Madman on the seismic line

I must be a mad one, a madman.
A mad one,
wandering and wondering,
talking to trees,
and sometimes singing to bees.
Wading through the muck,
hoping to pluck,
in the delta plain,
in this life, this jungle,
an oil fortune to mangle.
To the muddle, to mingle,
The mad one bungles,
and mumbles.
Wondering “what am I doing here?”
And listening hard to hear,
but only silence near.
Wondering, wandering,
this jungle, this life.
And still, only,
One more day on an offset life


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