Originally appeared on Ice Cream For Crow

My eyes are burnt and bleeding and all that looks like a monkey on a silver bar …
big poop hatch with a cotton hatch – hatch holes that the light shows in and the light shows out …
and the little red fence …
and the wire and the wood …
and the barbs and the berries …
and the tires and the bottles and the caruponrims …
and the heat swims on its fenders and the dust collects and the rust of autumn surrenders into gold …
trumpet poop on the ground with peanuts its bell was blocking an ant’s vision …
and the mice played in its air holes and valves …
a ladybug crawled off its mouthpiece standing out red and blacked its wings and blew off to a flower …
its hum heard just above the ground …
black dots were hung in what turned out to be an olive tree that originally held a tree house full of a building with one small window …
birds and broken glass and tiny bits of newspaper …
“My sun is free from the window,” said the god the green dabbers …
rice wires mouse tins and milk muffins …
cereal and stone …
matches and masks and mace and clubs …
and splintered shaft light intrigues a cricket on a dust jeweled penlet …
cobwebs collect down plaster run into a hole and find collected glass that drinks the reflection of midday afternoon midway between telegraph lines …
a silver wing – a cloud – a rumbling of a cloud …
a crowd of various violins strum from next door through my wall into my ear obviously artificial …
neighbors laugh through sandwiches …
Harlem babies – their stomachs explode into roars …
their eyes shiny with starvation …
spreckled hula dance on my phonograph …
my door rattles windy …
sand wears my rug shoe and taps on the unheard finish of an hourglass I cannot hear …
a typical musician’s nest of thoughts filter through dust speakers …
“Why don’t you go home? Oh Blobby, are you great,” exclaims two lips in some jumbled rock ‘n’ roll tune and wears a spot I cannot scratch …
the surface of a friend …
this high book a friend laid on me …
on the couch relaxing in the corner behind a still life pond with plenty of bugs and lily pads slurred in mud banks and boulders tin cans and raisins warped by thought …
strain on the spoon like a wheat check – check Bif – cotton popping out of his sleeve …
poop hatch open – big poop hatch with a cotton hatch – hatch holes – got to pick up the horns …
but the head won’t move until it walks

(1982)

Transcribed by Michael Stanowski.

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