Agriculture is our wisest pursuit, because it will in the end contribute most to real wealth, good morals, and happiness.
– Thomas Jefferson
Many of my ardent fans ask,
“What’s the typical day like for Barker Ajax,
Prize-Winning Psycho Poet?”
I guess, because I am so productive.
Fecund.
Look it up. Ha!
Truth is, I had to stop and think about my “typical” day.
Took a proactive stance.
Dropped right down onto the grass, crossed my legs
in the Lost Us position and contemplated my navel.
Which is an innie.
Writing is spine-bending, vertebrae-contorting, work.
The blank page is some heavy lifting, I’ll tell you that.
A typical day at the WILD DOG RANCH & NO-CUT TREE FARM.
Drained by dusk, I go to bed early, sundown usually.
I read fresh fiction,
can tell by the cover,
until I doze off.
In the middle of the night Hiawatha wakes,
she can’t sleep, so she fondles me
until I reach erection.
Make love to Hiawatha.
I sleep in, get maybe nine or ten hours a night.
For some reason I need plenty of rest the older I get.
After Hiawatha brews coffee, walks and feeds the dogs,
stokes the stove, heats the hot tub
and goes that extra mile
to bring the morning news up our hill,
she snuggles back into bed.
Make love to Hiawatha.
Nap.
Then I take a steamy soak
and skim the papers.
If it matters to me,
it’s in Calvin & Hobbes.
I peel on some cowboy duds
and pasturize my herd of farm deferments.
Then I make my one cold call.
Hiawatha thinks a man who makes cold calls
is very sexy.
Make love to Hiawatha.
I used to do yardwork,
but now I just go to my cabin
by the pond
and start writing.
Better for the grass.
Lunch time,
Hiawatha usually strolls over
with a picnic basket
and adult toys.
Make love to Hiawatha.
Check the mailbox.
No news
may not be good news,
it ain’t rejection either.
Work on whatever some local crumb
has tossed me
until I feel like a freelance streetwalker.
Drink more coffee.
Teach the new dog old tricks.
Spend an inordinate amount of my time
scratching fuzzy tummies.
Not counting Hiawatha’s.
My poem In Defense Of Woody Allen
is not going well,
so I move on to something gnu,
something burrowed, something blew.
Often any rhyme will do.
Past due. Must keep writing.
Until it’s time to take care of those
pesky deferments again.
I might shower now.
Make love to Hiawatha.
Nap. Write some more.
I walk for a hour
in the forest on a logging road,
track trolls in the mud,
and pray for world peace
or an NEA grant.
Hiawatha has dinner ready.
The way to a man’s heart is
through his stomach,
she says.
It pays to stay regular,
I say.
I do the dishes
and clean up the kitchen.
Deferments still there,
I am always checkin.’
Then I write
until my back hurts too much.
Maybe make love to Hiawatha.
About right here,
I call it a workday.
1993ish.