Richard Brautigan in Heaven
Somewhere in America Richard Brautigan is still fishing for trout. It is not this America but if you close your eyes you can see it from here. He is casting a line silhouetted against lemon-colored mist rising off a stream that runs down a mountainside in a plac e that looks like Montana. His floppy hat has blown off to somewhere and his hair has grown into a map of every trout stream he ever fished: a wild tangle of rivulets currents and flashing rainbows. The lines on his face are tiny poems. It might be strange for us but not for Richard. He has arrived at the silence of himself and is listening to it.
