Thursday, May 7, 2015

Incognito in Tin

I wake to a shiver and sweat and authorize
Getting out of bed. I find wisdom
In feet, intestines and desire and feel
The need to say something about
The innocence of occurrence and how it
Occurs like a piece of soap, a slippery bar
Of blue sky leaning across Nebraska. We
Curve into this life as happy contrarieties 
Today I’m wearing a fabulous unseemliness
That zips up with a single swift motion
Or zips down if I want to get out into the world
Naked as a chopstick. I fill with the forms
Of life and experiment with words, swerving
Them into the slop of a sentence where
The emotions smell of rain and the asphalt
Of the heart arrives beating away in a body
Hanging upside-down in the darkness
At the break of noon shadows the silver
Spoon and I distill the gloom of the room
Whispering words like ginger and chronicle
Writing is always like this. It starts as a walk
In a house of language and ends by exploding
Into 50 bucks and a labor pain. Today I have forged
The conscience of a piano which only yesterday
Was wood and ivory and dripped abstraction
And now it sits a diagnosis of clouds
Which is the kind of music that occurs
In the sky when the wind becomes a glissando
Wiggling its fingers in the human mind
Do you feel it? I feel the percolation
Of lightning and my cuticles love it
I have a heavy fire to pack
I’m churning inside to thank you
For making me your guide
To the end of this sentence which is
Headed toward Omaha on Interstate 80


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