How High The Moon

I want
to name
a spoon.

Is that what you are doing?

Or is there something else --
something elusive, illusory, allusive,
something just about to be known
but now not yet known

hung in the gallery
at night
when the snobs can't get at it
where the minds of others
with other things on their minds
have to hang back and keep their minds(') hands off
that shifty thing
that shiny spoon.

Aren't you going to finish this poem?

No.

I can't conceive
the end I'll meet.
What move
my mind
will move
my hand
to make

             then
        now
               when some
new thought comes

what will it be like?
I dare to wonder

flashing from some un-
remunerated covert
of the mind
without precedence --
oblique to all association's linkages --
a new thought
dropped
or popped
from the oblivion
before it was. . .

Now some new bird thought
joins the swooping flock.

Now the bird flock
loses itself
behind the tangled boughs
of some mind's
trees.

How high
's my mind?

From what
does the moon
hang
       leaning
over
empty woods (or words)
to see the animals
scramble?

Some mind, stopped,
but whole. Like the full
moon's round
between the hyper-focus of the
         winter branched
    black twig bush -- light
that doesn't
cause known things
to be known but
decimates as it allows
crows
to flourish
in the moon's flash.

Or else a certain light
of grain
blown against the dim
   sun's dust veils'
   golden aureole

and a ravaged mental state
so that the grim Plutonic brother
takes all definition back
with his woozy drumming.

That's Poetry -- boy!

Do you know
         how hard
                     it is
           to compose    HÉXameters?

               I'm broke.
My tooth is laid
        on the table by the spoon.

No more chomping stones
   between my thoughts:
I have to get up on the back of a pig
   and stand there too
   as it slogs about the yard muck
   snuzzling for a thing
   to sink its mindy snout in --

Aren't you going to finish this poem?

No.

A big wind.

And in the wind

wood,    pigs

radios    a lady's foot

a garrulous old fart
   that can't get a word in
 edge-wise
            against the wind
the wind's so hard --

a huge hammer
and a mighty stone

roll in the heave . . .