81 Poop Hatch

My eyes are burnt and bleeding and all that looks like a monkey on a
 silver bar... big poop hatch with a cotton hatch - hatch holes that the
 light shows in and the light shows out... and the little red fence...
 and the wire and the wood... and the barbs and the berries... the tires
 and the bottles and the caruponrims... and the heat swims upon its
 fenders and the dust collects and the rust of autumn surrenders into
 gold... trumpet poop on the ground with peanuts its bell was blocking
 an ant's vision... and the mice played in its air holes and valves... a
 ladybug crawled off its mouthpiece standing out red and blacked out
 its wings and blew off to a flower... its hum heard just above the
 ground... black dots were hung in what turned out to be an olive tree
 that originally held a tree house full of a building with one small
 window... birds and broken glass and tiny bits of newspaper..."My sun
 is free from my window," said the god the green dabbers... rice wires
 mouse tins and milk muffins... cereal and stone... matches and masks and
 mace and clubs... and splintered shaft light intrigues a cricket on a
 dust jeweled penlet... cobwebs collect down plaster run into a hole and
 find collected glass that drinks the reflection of midday afternoon
 midway between telegraph lines... a silver wing - a cloud - a rumbling
 of cloud... a crowd of various violins strum from next door through my
 wall into my ear obviously artificial... neighbors laugh through
 sandwiches... Harlem babies - their stomachs explode into roars... their
 eyes shiny with starvation... spreckled hula dance on my
 phonograph... my door rattles windy... sand wears my rug shoeand taps on
 the unheard finish of an hourglass I cannot hear... a typical
 musician's nest of thoughts through dust speakers..."Why don't you go
 home? Oh Blobby, are you great," exclaims two lips in some jumbled
 rock'n'roll tune and wears a spot I cannot scratch... the surface of a
 friend... this high bookafriend laid on me... on the couch relaxing in
 the corner behind a still life pond with plenty of bugs and lily pads
 slurred in mud banks and boulders tin cans and raisins warped by
 thought... strain on the spoon like a wheat check - check Bif - cotton
 popping out of his sleeve... poop hatch open - big poop ha