Morning comes engorged on voiceless air,
and the night whiners return to doggerel trees--
you see, I am not a morning man;
as the Sun tendrils into my ears and across my simian ass,
the warm sky-fire baring my naked exhaustion
to the Earth, my hair sticking up,
my legs weak, and my mood spilling
up from overflowing toilets,
I can't but speak gibberine English,
patting my head like damp, round dough.
"Are you up? Will you make the bed?"
I am asked first. It is the start
of the citizen nova that will shoot-star
evaporating questions at my skull until
I pass out again.
"I made the bed when I fell into it," I say,
"you just want me to turn it into furniture."
Having wrapped my babied feet in various
elements people will probably use to gauge me,
the Sun slips across the hill like an egg-yolk
edging down a window. It reaches my house
and slaps me in the face, running
bird noise scrimmages against my ugly ears.
I design the blueprint for a cosmic syringe
that I can stab into the Sun and use
to draw out all its poison.
I'd place the poison in a display and title it
'Magnanimous Morning'
but I know hippies and aerobics pets
down the hill who would only steal
my caught Sun and have sex in it,
smoke it, write better things about it
than I would, complete with a-ha moments
and wondrous conceits.
Somewhere, a truck is backing over a dog.
It is just more morning.