I met a farmer down Pamlico way, who said: You gone get inta chickens, you’ll need you some
money first. And he said: Nowadays you gots ta take all the loss an none a the profit,
in wheelbarrows, they’s so damn big. But be warned – they got this new math now – You know the one.
Intracoastal fief, where that hound’s lifetime of unrequited affection took our final trip round back.
No, his castle never washed away, built in that Alligator River mud, it was slouched
and gurgled before the ink dried on the deed. Somewheres, back in this hundred and that.
What you’ve got now, and the Historical Society will tell you, is all the UV-yellowed RCA
memorial appliances, which no one will digitize, though all are welcome to view, to come and dust off
the old math as the man once knew it. That’s not what happens. The house falls apart.
The County Development Commission nails a barn quilt on it. It becomes heritage.
I’ve been looking for that new math ever since but my search always starts and ends with
a sign outside Stumpy Point which reads “Greatest Land on Earth”, filled with buckshot
holes which spell “Croatoan”; and I wonder, really, in whose image have our maths been made?