Clouds are constructed from:

cows and masturbation and algebraic equations and
piss and station wagons and fruit and winter and
apple pie and John Wayne (Gacy) and clowns and
drunks and garbagemen and Georgia O’Keefe and
Aristophanes and stars and sheep and
trapezoids and funk and trees and weed and
snow and the Yellow Pages and Detroit and
Hiroshima and porn and zebras and ashes and
Bob Dylan and cancer and death
In the afternoon,
in my stationwagon,
in a drunken stupor
I moved to Detroit
with the garbagemen in the rain
George Bellows painted clouds and
winter and drunks and piss and
garbagemen in the snow.
I did not invent George Bellows
or Detroit or winter or cancer
or death

Lunch Poem #27

Haircut of weeds
A suddenness of light, the light
That bare limbs vein into
A dimmer switch of sound,
If a piano trinkles lightly
In Van Gogh’s crows
with only the black keys,
I painted a rhythm of ‘em
Lamp-black, a run down song. song.
I collected a basket of Mars-black for you
That pencil thin riff,
A trumpet of sky increases the sky
In shambles a shamble of clouds
Falls apart in the lamp-black air
When a million skies converge
In the clearing
And the stars are building their
Ghosts, let’s build bricks of it,
A stack of it

—George McKim