morning not morning
the light pools in leaf piles
where the squirrel rummages
tail in air & the wires hum like
my ears ringing ringing while
the lines explode in my head,
cross again & weave & kaboom
just like Schuyler said & he got
it right, I think, this manic vomit
of word & image & fear or is it
anxiety all wrapped up in a love
reaction to the waking world &
you do get paralyzed by the dark
fog haze at the edge of your vision,
fragmented floaters clouding
what could otherwise be a good
day but no, the edges creep &
creep & then the pale shade
through which all is muted
& yes, the grocery boy says
hello & the trash man waves
on his regular route & the dog
walkers walk not to mention
the dogs with their pissing &
shitting in yards & that's why
I don't want a dog because who
wants to pick up shit by hand
in a little plastic bag, the hot
turds danging from your wrist
like the worst jewelry but I
digress—you can see how it is,
can't you, the way everything
takes on a-not-quite-sepia tone
like a chord-shifted lullaby begging
the demons to wake & it's like
this every day, the light, the leaves,
the squirrels, the wires, sparking
sparking sparking a flame that
sputters & twists like a knife