A trout-colored wind blows
through my eyes, through my finger
and I remember how the trout
used to hide from the dinosaurs
when they came to drink at the riv

La voyageuse qui traverse les Hal
Marchait sur la pointe des pieds
Le désespoir roulait au ciel ses g
Et dans le sac à main il y avait
Que seule a respiré la marraine de

Driving through
hot brushy country
the late autumn,
I saw a hawk
crucified on a

This poem was found written on a p
Brautigan in a laundromat in San

The petals of the vagina unfold
like Christofer Columbus
taking off his shoes.
Is there anything more beautiful
than the bow of a ship

Everybody wants to go to bed
with everybody else, they’re
lined up for blocks, so I’ll
go to bed with you. They won’t
miss us.

Sometimes life is merely a matter
affords. I once read something abo
it stimulates all the organs.
I thought at first this was a stra
as time goes by I have found out t

THE AUTOPSY OF
This is the autopsy of Trout Fish
Fishing in America had been Lord
Missolonghi, Greece, and afterwar
of Idaho again, never saw Carrie

We stopped at perfect days
and got out of the car.
The wind glanced at her hair.
It was as simple as that.
I turned to say something—

I live in the Twentieth Century
and you lie here beside me. You
were unhappy when you fell asleep.
There was nothing I could do abou
it. I felt hopeless. Your face