So, two more sections.
[THUD]
Bong, indeed, bong, bong, bong.
Boing?
Well, sure, pluck your magic twanger, Gambol quail.
And yes, they get busy scuttling about tweezing seeds.
Why not?
Brownian motion, chapter umpteenth.
Everything plays "stop the sounds of the distant temple
bell," my hands, wrists, biceps, skull, and inner head,
land of a thousand dances and gradually attenuating
overtones.
Cactus wren chirr, crow caw, mourning doves whoo.
They're not so obviously thuggish right now.
And later, inside, parakeets, still under their sheet, chip,
chip chee woo, chip chee.
Moral, it looses moral that has never ceased to flow.
Sycamore, I see you have a woodpecker
in your hole, enlightened consciousness.
Latke slides near, wanting to drift unobjectionably
under my hand and push up.
Stop shoving my wrist, I'm typing.
Lies back down.
Licks and tooths at her right hind leg on the tile,
assiduously licks front paw.
My head has pretty much stopped vibrating,
but my arms vibe the overtone, shoulders too.
I know something else that's often a good instance of this.
Swimming to or floating hippo-ish
in the pool on the orange long-tube spaghetti floatie,
bob, bob, bob.
Davening probably, too, like the bloke
in the black hat and gabardine coat, all night on the New
York-bound Tucson plane, in the tight focus of his nightlife,
from around 5th Street.
Now the bird calls get tiny and everything glides
away from dawn toward the business of day, variously
intense, tense, funny, lascivious, slack, cherubic,
or boinged.
Or else dawn rolls away like a stage
set behind or under it, disrobing the busier backdrop,
russet mantle clad, et cetera.
Before it was, I don't know, like the immense rattle
of a diffuse genius loci snake, who meant no menace.
Like Leslie says, the comic book is calm
because, anyway, everything was snake.
Not the feeling David had when stepping on the dark snake
in Brazil, in sandals.
He said it felt like a baggie containing shit,
then it kind of whirred then bit that brown bump
on the ankle bone, I don't know what it's called,
like he said, an electric drill, then flopped off
hard onto the dirt road and slithered off his leg,
then an intensely magnified stop at temple bell
reverberater, receptacle, or maybe power station.
It didn't stop for days.
He didn't die.
But whenever it rains, his leg gets whacked
by the cosmic densho cop.
Hose slurs water into the mysteriously emptied spa.
Hard not to mean the attendant air of privilege, which
was actually a whole lot more minimal
than it sounds, land of a thousand dependents.
Matte green scrub up the hills toward the serious mountain
goes washier green in the slanting-down light.
But the oppresses, like the heft of cathedral tunes,
has absconded, leaving you face to face with save-a-ghost.
Some place on the other side, the mountain
is gleaming its washed red rock face back at the sun,
Catalina glint-o-rama being the proper term.
Hide.
Who?
I guess you, OK, gentle reader.
I initiate you into the diffusely bonging body,
boinging into roadside rabbit poised down now, scampering
stealthily into the brush.
Now you're a cactus pad feeling your spines because I said so.
Apparently, it's allowed to be with Whitmanian.
It's all happening at the zoo.
Intense dark green of the well-watered Lady Banksia
climbing rose, devouring entire west-facing plate
glass pseudo second story window,
you're blocking all my light.
Good morning.
And it is.
Not the light to the south, where a single bird heads
north in a liquid hurry, picking up altitude then sliding
from view.
I dedicate this morning business to the people of Iraq.
And to you, whoever you are, now I
take your hand that you be my poem.
Bong into the general, only apparently intermittent,
vibration.
Bzzzz, says other shore this shore for sure.
Gah!
All right, one more.