A lineating lineation
then the wine-dark wine.
Like an avalanche my desire to sit and think of nothing.
The memory of a baloney sandwich
is gospel to my hunger.
The woodpecker in his autistic dawn
and the fingernail moon that floats
above the drunk
trundling the tracks
toward the abandoned silo.
I walk in snowfall
where hope rots the dark heart of
despair and my duct tape shoes are in need
of a good mend.
I walk in light-fall so that I can gorge on oranges.
The juice that stings my chin where I cut myself.
I drink three glasses of water. I can’t slake
this thirst. Outside wings are beating loud ungainly melodies.
There is a crow
named Bartok who plays for me and my friends.
And then went down to the beach where
I yelled at seagulls and chanced on a tree trunk
worn down to an amputated bone of great character.
The light hung from a ceiling of messy cloud.
I thought of Carol whose ass thrilled me,
of that gasbag Geoffrey of Monmouth
(see also William of Malmesbury,
Adam of Usk,
Henry of Huntingdon)
and the free jazz scene of Milan, Illinois.