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 car-upon-rims...
and the heat swims on 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 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 pen-let...
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 a 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...
speckled hula dance on my phonograph... my door rattles windy... sand wears my rugged
shoe and taps on the unheard finish of an hourglass I cannot hear... a typical musician's
nest of thoughts filtered 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 book-a-friend 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 hatch with
a cotton hatch - hatch holes, gotta pick up the horns - but the head won't move until it walks.

"Hey Garland, I dig your tweed coat. I'll trade you a domino this size, mothball-scented."

The woman silk nude tie painting his chest. One celluloid stay exposed through his nibbled collar. Feet speckled the sidewalk. Faces gurgled through windows. Passing cars gum rubber streaks. Neon plants swim like green seaweed to a deep rhythm of blues. Red thyroid sunsets, flame in speckled chemistry. Pipes run off dark tubes. Erase into marks that pour the dye of darkness. Crystal comes together as silent as ink.

"I don't think I could let it go. I got it at the religious scene."

Teeth let go, tobacco juice, an oiled balloon, brown eye in an egg white, black tar bubbles and stripes. A straw hat squeaked on the brim of a feather. Newsprint thumbed through nicotine fingers, a dark olive was turned on. Its small pulp speaker burst into a scream. One large tomato was immediately peeled skin red. It bled into a red "O" and smacked behind accepted fangs. Quick eyebrows danced cutely above a mole. The bridge held a large gold pair of spectacles. The front was smooth. It slightly gathered and wrinkled at the holes. A dark wooden mustache deposited below above Chinese red varnished lips that dented slightly into the evening.

"It's gotten quite cold. I've decided I can't sell you my coat."

Honking, the wind puffed into the clumps above the lattice rows. And out looked Panatella, naked and not ashamed, without no clothes. Wiggle Pig went snout-first into a tree. The rubber turkey was gobbled up by the night's dark rubber mouth. A white phosphorous raindrop dropped in the sky. Hot silhouettes in a convertible gave this applause. And several white porcelain trays were rolled in by bumblebees. Their wings arranged with pictures out of the past. And the rainbow baboon gobbled fifteen fish eyes with each spoon. Pockets was caught at window level. Approaching the fractured glass, dripping in light, he spoke: "I've just looked at myself, and from here to there it ain't far enough, but from here to here it's too short."

"And circles don't fly, they float," Pena exclaimed and went on to say, "Sun sure did shine this year. Who'd you look like underneath?"