The Fisheries and Hatcheries of the Western Horizon

Goddamn it, the oblivion inside my head is acting up again.
We were rowing through the landscape with our hands.
A nose is an admirable rudder, it said in the Owner’s Manual.
I’ve worn out my welcome and I never left the mat.
My life preserver is on backwards.
I’m too melancholy to use my emergency flair.
One can imagine the great waterfall where the world ends.
It’s Sunday and everyone’s come to their windows
To see what the sirens are all about.
A single dead leaf is tumbling down a well.
An all night rescue mission to save it.
An all night vigil to let it know we care.
I was too distracted by the spinning lure.
The gods are trolling for us in the shallows.
The bare trees hang like guardrails on docks.
A blind duck in the hunting lodge
Is a sage the bearded men flock to.
He says the world is a web of lies.
He holds up a foot to make the point.
Someone throws some bread; he snaps at them.
Before you shoot me, he says, let me mate with that decoy.
Before you eat me, put my head in some water.
Leave me on a ledge in the sun.
A duck will slowly shoot new feathers.
A duck will bloom in spring.
In a temperate climate, a duck will thrive
In partial shade in slightly acidic soil.
Space many paces from the gooseberries.
These are dark days, the man in shades says.
Death takes him over the knee for the remark.
I’m upside down in a kayak on an endangered river.
I’m sleeping with the promiscuous fishes
Who are spending the afternoon lazing around
Grazing on a dark and mysterious foie gras.
They say it’s made of tortured souls.
I was flopping around too much to care.