Attitude Adjustment

Attitude Adjustment I am no cloud watcher—nor school trained radical I practice my writing like a cannibal sharpening his knife waiting for a missionary I can still sit on the creek bank where Mother used to fish for our supper People tell me I can no longer freeload on nature. Society has taken away the divine rights of fishermen leaving behind Clorox jugs, food stamps, and other trash. I don't want to recall Grandpa tilling his corn I want to fill out a job application satisfactorily. I don't want to recall Thanksgiving with the dressing I want a road map to supper. The radio preaches me sermons on the necessities of nuclear defense personal computers Yet, my mileage is measured in footsteps An apprentice to a slave has greater job security. The census takers shunned me. I don't fit into a Sunday suit or their Washington formulas. I just meander. Sometimes I wish I saw a distant star or just once could lust after my cousin's new Oldsmobile although I think my wife could be happy if I came home with some electricity in my pocket. I tell her light makes too much noise at night. My private sermons are composed on the creek bank, where I wear the used costumes of the rich: (blue jeans are saved for town visits). I know what a little lead in the water does. (Like Socrates I drink my share) My first bomb blew up in my bloody face. The trial and error method is hard on an amateur terrorist. I think I will develop immunity to a short fuse by writing crazy letters to the editor: "Take away the Clorox jugs. Bring back the fish." (or else)—Walter Lane First printed in general Kentucky Studies. 70 ...