Fool on a Morn

Pure as banging on spoons
vacant stream of city dump
mind trash floats around me
occupying the fragile antenna
of being; shelving crap for later
waves of noise, exhibitions of sand
metaphoric cavemen
march, while I,
stoned,
cannot force myself
to exhale a simple line of greeting
to the morn – I believe such words
are lost, in Irish folk songs, morn... what is it, morn?
These pancake eyes have seen one at birth
though the memory of an old man
can't pick up the word
an infant screamed, anonymous, into the ugly
vape of drawers, clanking in the kitchen
where his wife made Polish
breakfast for sons of this land
soon battling forwards
against the uniform of sitcom
whatever happens showing
I ought to make some coffee, forget the deal
move on w/ the straight life
go back to women, kids & careers, a path I left
hanging such a long time ago
words, like me, were simple-minded specks
wooden sleep proceeding
bells in churches silent
as I roamed the daybroad sin
pure as shitting on goldcoins
draft me soon, or craft me a butcher
error blood proceeds
whipping the culture remains
gutting down the buttons of a broken down shirt
of a prophet, so I say, morn... what is it, morn?
Should I be sleeping or awake already
planning one more failure
should I be dead or alive
stalking freebie mountains