I give up:
I bleed I must know.
Grant me the

Although it is noon or roughly so, the church below is
   positioned like an hour hand 
at eleven o’clock, 

So many channels to choose from. Somewhere
in the high numbers blockheads trash-talk
during recess in the blue playground near school.

The good life is unbuttoned, questions
about gender just stirring after a raucous night
under the hammock. Rumor has it that trellises

Baseball is the purest sport, meaning
ballparks out in the heartland, mixing
fork balls and slurves, tapping

Everything about
a human
is doomed

The logs of wool jersey plastered with labels 
Lay in the lint and litter, columns in a heap 
Like a Doric temple left at the shipping dock, 

He bestrode each gleaming chopper on the floor;
A kind old man, T-shirted, gave advice.
He wanted a bike his friends could not ignore

Here bricks are so rare they are like agates
We wonder who would carry them so far
Here I feel good because I have nothing
I am thinking about

 They want one of every kind and they
can't help it, it's an addiction,
the house full of novelty radios,