misheard

I

near my noonish morning near eleven o seven
stretching, deep breathing the early glassy chill
cheering, the wind--blinds drying
cactus sunning the spring up into itself
sucking dry cold, thorns calming
jagged laser of sunshine across my frames

screwed into my head. Paid too much.
No insurance. A lotta reading to oneself
in the parked car. A lotta rolling around farting & snoring.
near my noonish morning. In bed with bread unleavened
caw-cawing
Pawing
books off the shelf

Shining, my new visions are alarming
once again breathing in deep for the simple pleasure of it
blanket & wood smell, the alcohol on the bicep, triceps
a wood burning swelling the sides of my tongue
while I tore off the bread with the sensitive flesh of my palate

I was mid-cigarette before I knew I didn't want it
it had been tossed before I knew I wanted it back for one more drag
and the wind, the wind and the bus will never wait for you
you ride it or get hit by the wall of zig-zags
in which you roll up the makings, as offering
for the ancestral wind

on my knees as if punished,
lobes red from the pinch
I've got that 'out' to get.


II

Neptune's father my honey nose
the hole in my head
you need neither a vulcan nor a polyp 
we need only heaven and earth
and these cawings
interwoven by the sea bell tolling
Misheard or hard, cat the correct cafe


III

Stormed the snow nudging you 
fail making a sight at the size I am
all over the graceful--
or was it. Haven't seen me
in the juice
the east volcano anyone of 
us does thus surprise, and dust
and sails the rift, moor rain, 
each puddle, 

           the
war of eurasia, 
gone & won.


IV

A little aurora the dream left shocked jaw 
of the sick brown mutt combs the teeth dreaming
A whelming crunch of the flowers mold off the tire, 
to my saint, to my saint of Finlandia
the left of the sea, red of 
pomodoros at this point
in time.


V

I saw the changes disappearing in the good feeling 
of the first line of the wilting city that was his legacy, 
the ability, resigning to the handed, new forms on inheritance
happy the same of this city sealed and described, imagined, written in a poem

in a snappy way, 

leaving the roots dangling where the first dirt 
comes from, pouring out
into the rest of this life, 
I don't have roots here in this city, 
things got worse as I lived on
which has no reverse on it, 
reserve on what I really 
see in this landscape

told lies on that shadow that came before, none of which I understand,
I don't understand and am unwilling
to find out when I look out

to the contrary, north
contrary, house
& home this the chime shouts and rings about
the blue van is gone from the drive
with poundage to sell
blue steel and blue ceramic workers
hard-headed the blue of the morning
deep blue of dusk

I'll go back and see what we were doing across the field there, the surface, 
and even further, the movement of this city
which is a giant plate of fire and fire-rock


VI

Two rocks out on the little boy
men smoke and talk in darkness
foolish of nature pleasant Chinese
Japanese Greeks Italians
wore the cloth away
anyone who had the love of letters and 
who lived on this Earth
knew that