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By Jack Joseph Smith

I ain't had no more trouble with any kind a' livestock then I had with pigs. One time we was attempt'en to get a load off the God Damned wagon and this pig just wouldn't take to mov'ing. Climbed I over the side, came up behind thee son-of-a-bitch, and took an jammed that tail right up it's ass. Do ya!! think there was a movement? Hell no. So I goes a' back over dat railing - And comes back round to the front of the son a bitch with an iron bar just picked up and beat that pig over the snout until it squealed so bad I got fraid of losing my profit. Sometimes a man's must got to sit things out I guess; even it's for a hog... LOME LAND ANARCHIST Tall, dead set grain hauler, owner of your own truck, knower of great gears, beliver in axel balances; feeler of the big wheel, Great field burner, turner of gold horizon into black ground. Harvested field fire makes nucular cloud, while children move under the smoke of an ancient rite, free for sight spinning body twirls of laughter, and removed from the modern dance of death. Self made four wheel drive night light hunter, silent arrow, or low powered rifle will keep whiskey breath from kissing rabits in the ditch tonight.

Original Scan

Page 39

AI Interpretation

GPT

A rural pig anecdote leads into 'LOME LAND ANARCHIST,' a portrait of grain hauling, field burning, hunting, machinery, whiskey, and prairie violence.

The page pairs comic brutality with a catalog of rural competence and damage. The first section performs a spoken farm story in dialect, while the titled section turns the land worker into a mythic figure made from gears, fire, truck ownership, hunting, and smoke.

Claude

The pig story and anarchist catalog appear in another variant, followed by Granny Lawrence watching bank robbers escape at noon during a potato factory lunch break, and then Roy Nash from Alberta with his broken neck.

Roy Nash - fifty-one years old, six foot six, French Basque eyes, broken neck from falling a Douglas fir, right arm dead - arrives as one of the collection's most affecting portraits. The narrator feeling his handshake and watching him go sober up the logging road through the moon while returning to iron pipes and furnace makes the farewell genuinely elegiac, the body's damage held against the moon's indifference.