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Noon. Potatoe Factory lunch break. From the plankings - we see F.B.I. all over the farm town street. There's evil in the eye of the old Arksansas lady, but the poor gossip Granny does say, "I sure do hope those boys get away." This was their third bank, but one more down the line they killed a cop It was actually a coupples job; and when they went to the city It was more of its gossip that got them caught: Traditional heritage keeper tending his Title trees; While the governments contract game is clear-cut distruction Now he snickers from the shade of his mountain at the distant appearance of a Moon-Shot photo Next he points out the pun of his territorial protection - through the factual image of wasteland Moats - surrounding his forests: Roy Ga Nash from Alberta, Canada came by the mill. He broke his neck last fall fall'en the Douglas Fur in the woods. At fifty-one years and six foot six, eyes in the French mountain Basque tradition, he won't be able to travel North again because of the pain. With a brace around his neck, and his right arm dead; I felt him when he shook this new night boiler boy's hand. As he goes away sober up the logging road through the moon; I pass back into the iron pipes, the brass fittings, the furnace with the lower iron doors: The boiler of itself as retort of steam; The huge round stacks I see while my shovel heaves wood, then smoke all timed to shimmer the earth and factory of my body at "blow down;" No time to dream of women, but if I did could you live with nature in a physics away from the city with the sweetness still in your soul; with the violence sometimes necessary for the accomplishment of your goals. With the wind and its speaking murmur that means things: The stillness of the stars as if they were dashing to your touch at the end of your need for brillance. (yEllow pApEr) At thE fArM housE froM NEW MooN pLANtiNg uNtil thE FuLL MooN of hArvEst while youNgster husbANdMEN HAvE ThE coNtEMpLAtion of MEN liKE Roy Ga NAsh