Fishing by Callie Garnett

Its like yr going fishing & 4 a while u dont ctch anything but it dosnt mater bc u mite & then aftr a while wham it maters bc this is so boring & y am I doing this? 

So do u go thru that again evry time u go fishing or do u find a way 2 exploit the early part - Wonder, Expectation, Feeling Thoughtful & forget the rest? 

& what if only Wonder, Expectation, Feeling Thoughtful hav a claim on u yr time & fuk the rest yr busy u hav standing comittments w/ them u hav appts?

I. Looking at the wipers I have 
dreams of fresh rotoscopy, 
new sciences of movement born of love and spindles in the future 
when animals were love, somewhere back there

by the engine heaps of carp, trout, pike, bassempty buckets, 
dad took me fishing and
I thought maybe I have 
something to learn like how to put a lid on it, the compound kind of polyethelene 
airtight seal 
on sloshing liquids or

I got so bored listening sometimes;
he liked to explain about fishing
and silence he explained a lot about, its being like fishing and other likenesses 
building and fishing, painting 
                                        and fishing, 
iterating dotted grids 
                                        and fishing, 

with a fine rapidograph on no-bleed…things like that, all things 
he did, which
being actual you would think had some stability and purchase in our father-
daughter discourse, at least on its surface, even 
when the latter whipped out its water legs, and superfine, and dimpling slid but 
that we actually cast
there at Sea Cove Pond seemed some most minor 
coda in small print like 
what the people we were watching 
watch TV were watching on TV in the morning, this being one

occasion fishing so fishing and self-like I 
forgot which lures were lake lures, the harlequin ones I hoped

II. All parts of nature wear their processes outside, like a bicycle:
bugs, fish, trees, pollination. This is true 
not after one or two casts but even before, 
as we’re loading up the car I think 

sometimes he thinks I’m touched like Jodi Foster in that movie 
I can fish but not remembering how to when I look 
into the plausible, 
I’m wrong when I go with him to the pond 


Lake I mean, it’s like its wrong
to keep in mind a rank of big and little apertures along the rod it’s like 
pedantic. When 
I try remembering what it means, from which 
direction, when I try to 
be instructed by the papillary spirals, when I try to think about the camel and a 

finger in the bible I am
ready to believe in such calamities as water being skin or oil, a darker liquid than 
it is, or a darker gel, inane like that
divinely boring perversities that never…struck it. 

Nothing, we get nothing, an imp I conjure, a snatcher who levitates all the fish 
before us, before we glide there pitches them,
conductor-like, in some more insensate 
part of water: a third 

outside part. This action, general and 
airborne as it is still shakes some bells, 
the liveliest assurance of a thaw here, hues of teal so total sports equipment 
outlets glitter with embarrassed clear; 
on our way there it could definitely rain, definitely 
rain on our way home.