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