What the *$%?

I have slowly been reading Ted Berrigan's The Sonnets . I have had the book for a while, but only ventured into reading it a couple of months ago. I am only finishing it because I started it, and it is a small book, but I am thoroughly bored. While not as drastically obscure as Geoffrey Hill's recent poetry of the past decade, still Berrigan ventures into absurdity. From Sonnet L:

...as I was saying winter of 18 lumps
Days produce life locations to banish 7 up
Nomads, my babies, where are you...