When I was younger and he was alive, I didn’t
understand Jim Harrison. Now
that he’s dead, I sort of do. It makes me want
to build a blurb out of words from the tavern,
words that require music to be heard.
That we are a horny organism specifically
designed to create shit does not stop us
from wanting to be god. Consider the moon
from the bottom of a river if you want to know
how deep a girl’s death can go. Embrace
the horror of New York for its pressed duck
and the marshes of Michigan for their wild
leeks. It should please you to know that
a great blue heron has outlived you.
Greg Keeler is the author of several books, including Trash Fish and Epiphany at Goofy’s Gas. He has been writing a sonnet a day for more than 15 years.
