WITH THE RAIN FALLING SURGICALLY AGAINST THE ROOF, I ATE A DISH OF ICE CREAM THAT LOOKED LIKE KAFKA'S HAT. IT WAS A DISH OF ICE CREAM TASTING LIKE AN OPERATING TABLE WITH THE PATIENT STARING UP AT THE CEILING. A PIECE OF GREEN PEPPER FELL OFF THE WOODEN SALAD BOWL: SO WHAT? BEAUTIFUL, SOBBING HIGH-GEARED FUCKING AND THEN TO LIE SILENTLY LIKE DEER TRACKS IN THE FRESHLY-FALLEN SNOW BESIDE THE ONE YOU LOVE. THAT'S ALL. THINKING HARD ABOUT YOU I GOT ON THE BUS AND PAID 30 CENTS CAR FARE AND ASKED THE DRIVER FOR TWO TRANSFERS BEFORE DISCOVERING THAT I WAS ALONE. I LIKE TO THINK (AND THE SOONER THE BETTER!) OF A CYBERNETIC MEADOW WHERE MAMMALS AND COMPUTERS LIVE TOGETHER IN MUTUALLY PROGRAMMING HARMONY LIKE PURE WATER TOUCHING CLEAR SKY. I LIKE TO THINK (RIGHT NOW, PLEASE!) OF A CYBERNETIC FOREST FILLED WITH PINES AND ELECTRONICS WHERE DEER STROLL PEACEFULLY PAST COMPUTERS AS IF THEY WERE FLOWERS WITH SPINNING BLOSSOMS. I LIKE TO THINK (IT HAS TO BE!) OF A CYBERNETIC ECOLOGY WHERE WE ARE FREE OF OUR LABORS AND JOINED BACK TO NATURE, RETURNED TO OUR MAMMAL BROTHERS AND SISTERS, AND ALL WATCHED OVER BY MACHINES OF LOVING GRACE. I AM STANDING IN THE CEMETERY AT BYRDS, TEXAS. WHAT DID JUDY SAY? "GOD-FORSAKEN IS BEAUTIFUL, TOO." A VERY OLD MAN WHO HAS CANCER ON HIS FACE AND TAKES CARE OF THE CEMETERY IS RAKING A GRAVE IN SUCH A MANNER AS TO ALMOST POLISH IT LIKE A PIECE OF SILVER. AN OLD DOG STANDS BESIDE HIM. IT'S A HOT DAY: 105. WHAT AM I DOING OUT HERE IN WEST TEXAS, STANDING IN A CEMETERY? THE OLD MAN WONDERS ABOUT THAT, TOO. MY PRESENCE HAS BECOME A PART OF HIS RAKING. I KNOW THAT HE IS ALSO POLISHING ME. I DON'T CARE HOW GOD-DAMN SMART THESE GUYS ARE: I'M BORED. IT'S BEEN RAINING LIKE HELL ALL DAY LONG AND THERE'S NOTHING TO DO. WRITTEN JANUARY 24, 1967 WHILE POET-IN-RESIDENCE AT THE CALIFORNIA INSTITUTE OF TECHNOLOGY. DRIVING THROUGH HOT BRUSHY COUNTRY THE LATE AUTUMN, I SAW A HAWK CRUCIFIED ON A BARBED-WIRE FENCE. I GUESS AS A KIND OF ADVERTISEMENT TO OTHER HAWKS, SAYING FROM THE PAGES OF A LEADING WOMEN’S MAGAZINE, “SHE’S BEAUTIFUL, BUT BURN ALL THE MAPS TO YOUR BODY. I’M NOT HERE OF MY OWN CHOOSING.” THIS POEM WAS FOUND WRITTEN ON A PAPER BAG BY RICHARD BRAUTIGAN IN A LAUNDROMAT IN SAN FRANCISCO. THE AUTHOR IS UNKNOWN. BY ACCIDENT, YOU PUT YOUR MONEY IN MY MACHINE (#4) BY ACCIDENT, I PUT MY MONEY IN ANOTHER MACHINE (#6) ON PURPOSE, I PUT YOUR CLOTHES IN THE EMPTY MACHINE FULL OF WATER AND NO CLOTHES IT WAS LONELY. IT’S A STAR THAT LOOKS LIKE A POKER GAME ABOVE THE MOUNTAINS OF EASTERN OREGON. THERE ARE THREE MEN PLAYING. THEY ARE ALL SHEEPHERDERS. ONE OF THEM HAS TWO PAIR, THE OTHERS HAVE NOTHING. I WALKED ACROSS THE PARK TO THE FEVER MONUMENT. IT WAS IN THE CENTER OF A GLASS SQUARE SURROUNDED BY RED FLOWERS AND FOUNTAINS. THE MONUMENT WAS IN THE SHAPE OF A SEA HORSE AND THE PLAQUE READ WE GOT HOT AND DIED.