Trout fishing with Lenin

The East Carson River

purls lime Jello clear

with whipped cream frosting

where it races

over the lava ledge

into the pool where

I know the cutthroats hide.

But they aren’t biting.

The aspens shuffle gold

then go dead still calm.

If I don't get a strike

in the next five minutes

I’m gonna find a grassy spot

and read another chapter

of ‘What is to be Done?'.

Pick over the bones

of a political pamphlet 

published in 1902.

I should have brought

a crime story or a thriller;

There’s no sex or death in Lenin.

I gave myself this task

so I can't blame anyone else

for the Bolshevik homework.

God. the Bible is much more engaging.

Wish these trout would bite,

save me from Vlad’s turgid prose.

One more cast. and and and

yes! feels like a big one!

Ah, shit. it's just a goddamned boot.

A work boot. Is that some kind

of message? That his assertion

that revolution requires

a vanguard party to lead

and not just economic struggle?

Or is it from some poor sinner

who drowned in the floods of June?

Must we choose between philosophies

or faith? Or are they just like

the worm impaled on my hook.

Which the trout are refusing.

Maybe they're the ones

who have the right idea.

Til now! I gotcha now,

what a beauty! yeah.....

You’re too beautiful to kill.

Go home sweet fish,

I haven’t got god nor party.

So let's just share this emerald water,

these quaking aspens and let these

clouds above be the only ones in mind.