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
that suffers the dark heat
and my duct tape shoes 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 Marilyn Monroe whose ass thrilled me.
These cold-finger back-shed mornings
my letters have a vaguely Pauline feel
as I think on certain subjects: that gasbag
Geoffrey of Monmouth
(see also William of Malmesbury,
Adam of Usk,
Henry of Huntingdon)
and the free jazz scene of Milan, Illinois.