81 Poop Hatch

My eyes are burnt and bleeding and all that looks like

a monkey on a silver bar ,

big poop hatch with a cotton hatch â€" 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 â€" a cloud â€" 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 â€" 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 â€" check Bif

â€" cotton popping out of his sleeve ,

poop hatch open â€" big poop hatch with a cotton hatch

â€" hatch holes â€" got to pick up the horns ,

but the head won't move until it walks