Wednesday, October 7, 2015

An Elevator Door Opens

An elevator door opens. Out steps an abstraction dressed in handsprings. What this means is sensation, keen sensation, exquisite sensation, the language of fish and chips and dreams trickling puddles of reflection on Sunday mornings. The delicate noises of Cézanne’s marvelous life.
Please somebody help me. I’m drowning in ovations. Or are they evasions? What I meant to say is that the salt in a Martian’s ear is inherently lyrical. But I don’t think you need me to tell you that. What was it you needed me for? Would you like me to tell you about pain? Pain is an indecent confusion that apparels us in lightning in the ancient gardens of the mind.
What a strange smell. Is that you? When one’s nerves are birds the world begins spinning. And smelling. You know that smell when you open a can of tuna? That’s the smell. It reminds me of fish and death and the merciless ambling of a black conviction spread by the paragraph of a dark, slow voice producing cleavage and oysters in a cocktail lounge somewhere in Alabama.
What’s your favorite emotion? Mine is ripping the sky apart and standing on a star outside of time.
It is the job of the house to mingle itself with cracks.
My understanding of Seattle has expanded to include Tangiers. This makes everything vertiginous and wide. I’ve never been overly fond of horizontality. There are horses in me that want the wide open spaces of a piece of paper. Anguish is just the flip side of oblivion. There’s a certain ooze that confirms this, and a stranger arriving in town whose eyes are evocations of pink. With a little spit and varnish he can be made to look like anybody, even Carl Sandburg.
It is the destiny of puppets to dangle from strings and climax in diphthongs. This is how I managed to arrive in Cincinnati just in time to rupture a scruple. I got tangled in my strings but when I discovered autonomy available in the G minor of a violin sonata by Franz Schubert I took full advantage and tripped lightly into an elevator that took me all the way to Point Hope, Alaska.
If all else fails, you can always rely on circumlocution. Some people call it bullshit. Me, I like to think of it as a random migration of thought trembling under a vast spectrum of improbability.
This is where the adjectives come in: gluttonous, exquisite, revitalizing, ebullient, jovial, carefree, playful, buoyant, and drastic. Everything The House of Destiny should be: open, aberrant, original, eccentric, bottomless, topless, immeasurable, peculiar, and odd.



Saturday, October 3, 2015

My Weary Fulmination

I don’t mince words. I defend them with hysteria, my subscription to Hustler and a phosphorescence of Etruscan dots. I think of a tin kiss prolonging a structure of hamburger and realize that the scenery surrounding my life is slightly dodecaphonic, but otherwise sound as a discombobulation of cowboys in a Freudian discotheque. It is within the confines of our refrigerator that I draw true inspiration: infrared pickles and the curly drawing of a gallon of cross-eyed skim milk reposing in golden photoconductivity. The ice cubes are reveries of water and the cheese is totally retrospective.

I can’t wait to squeeze the grandeur of a lost opportunity. I will not use my sense of nothingness as an excuse. Buckle up, dude, we’re going places.
The vermilion altitude of my favorite tie interprets reality differently than I do. But I like to wear it anyway. It confers a certain authority on my chest that would otherwise be wasted on buttons. What do you think of those glasses and jars in Cézanne’s still lifes? I think they’re mighty with simultaneousness.
Today I got a job consolidating blisters in a pencil factory. But then I quit. I lasted ten minutes. Enough for a career, but not enough for a decent paycheck. Consequently, I had to take up boxing. I didn’t last very long at that either. I got a few punches in before the mattress collapsed to the floor.
Surrealism is my game, baby, but blossoming is my prerogative. Growling is an innocent luxury. And so I growl. GRRRRRR!!!
Suppose a funny indentation reached for a rattlesnake and lactated forty pounds of Chicago? Would you cry? Would you spit? Would you construct a simulacrum of life in an igloo? That’s what I did. And I managed to avoid Chicago completely.
A bunch of sunlight fell on my head while I was waiting to rent a furnished itch. My weary fulmination deepened into an amoebic decorum and I lost my head completely while tilting a subjective tortilla at a quixotic lump of sugar on a Platonic spoon. This is how to get tangled up in adjectives, my friend. My advice is to stay as close as you can to the coast of Greenland and then expand yourself into a relentless, hedonistic ball of fire.
Once you get your personality going you can always go to Montmartre. If you require the services of a subversive giant to bring you to the top you might want to bring a little extra cash. But make sure the giant is truly subversive and not just spilling his guts into a glass of wine.
Some days all I want to do is write poetry and get sexual with a planet. I’m aroused by orbits. I feel all the reticence of a peptic misanthrope but none of the adhesion. This is why I have trouble with bedsprings.
I wish I had never left California. I could’ve been a fingernail. Severity is so gaudy. The paint hangs from the painting ambushing a seashore and I have to wonder why I came to this motel in the first place. And then I remember: I became a conceit for shaving lather and dried my face with a car axle. I won’t do that again. Next time I’ll use a dishwasher.

Thursday, October 1, 2015


I smell Plato. Wherever I go I smell Plato. My inner fire blazes with a higher reality. I fold it up and put it in a drawer. I go on my way. My sternum is as severe as a winter sky. I live in a skull of sugar which is placed on my shoulders like a story of labor and pain. Hair comes out of it. A goodly amount of it. Why, I don’t know why. If Great Britain takes umbrage with Amazon, who can blame them? This is why I’ve decided to go through life with a warehouse in my back pocket. Various personal injuries decorate my heart. I expand into eyes. I deposit pretzels in the Bank of Pretzels, as I was advised, by the King of Pretzels. I drift across a piece of paper leaving words behind my pen. The words get up and walk around. Nothing in life is ever truly incongruous. Therefore be glad and culminate in dots. Evade predictions. There is more to a chair than a chair. There are gnarls of wood and grain and shapes that snake through Tuesday bundled in glue and nails. So many subtleties are distinguished in dishwashing. There is a certain glamour in grammar. Red fingernails growing in reckless abandon. I’m held together by buttons and shoes. It helps to point these things out. Utopia wasn’t built in a day. By that I mean popcorn and cymbals. What is the harm in harmony? If I sound like a piano, will the diversities of life go on squeezing my lingerie? Identity is just another antagonism to appease. By this I mean babble, sparkle, and yearn. Really, just like reading. Open a book and there they are: words. Pronouns walking around dressed in adjectives. Does it worry you that silver is Italian? Buy a bathtub. You’ll see. Water is drunk with being water. Is that a door in your head, or just another eyebrow? The dime shines on the sidewalk calling out in miracles of bas-relief. I sense another reality clutching the trees and shaking them around. Some might call that wind. I call it the drool of twilight. When one journey ends another begins. The insects scatter and desire moves into the light awkward and romantic. The railroad is stunning. I long to hang from your lips discussing the monsters of late night TV. And no, I’m not a tuna. I dig the warm earth of Cubism. My intestines are pretty and fold around in the various colors of a sloppy but sensible convolution. The ghost of a dream inhabits my bassoon. It bangs around like a coat hanger because the escalator is thirsty. It prowls around the shopping mall dropping salads of sound and step by step transcends the floor. This is how it’s done, baby. The raw umber of being alive fattens the rodents and stipples the petition of sense in a cloud of nothingness. The result is a refrigerator in G minor, infrared pickles and a gallon of cross-eyed skim milk. I won’t deny the material world, no, but let’s face it: consolidating blisters in a pencil factory is just so much punctuation. It ain’t Chicago, dude. I have, however, changed my mind about chutney. Nobody’s odor should get in the way of sweating. Imagine Joan Baez in a T-shirt. Roll into a bistro whistling a zygodactyl ditty. Order some coffee. Sit down. Lift your cup and smell it. Smell the coffee. This is how things are done in the material world. The firmament lies down in the fog and nurtures a fertile anonymity, a lovely monotony, a kind of purity mixed with cocoa. Infinity dripping with hope. This is what I meant to say all along. I’m sad, not bitter. Just down a quart. All I ever wanted was to get out of this world. And here I sit: wandering around in my head like a ski resort.

Saturday, September 26, 2015


Why do I do this? Why do I feel compelled to put words down on paper? Will it fill stadiums with people waving smartphones? Will it keep me from dying? Will it make me immortal? Is it any fun to be immortal when you’re dead?  

It’s the very futility of the thing that draws me in, the subversive energy of making something of no possible use, a document of hedonistic glowworms, a subjective tortilla, a cabbage of vertical consciousness that sways me into sewing words of clay and hunger, an embroidery of dusky migration.  

This thing which is wallets to a dada bulb. This sound of letters in a drop of heart. This chemistry of sensation, this extension of shadows. The whole thing shakes like an ocean detonating glands of kaleidoscopic light in a Budapest of humming narration. If a mouth opens a fugue balloons into Bach. Comparisons create more differences than similarities and so lengthen into sequoias of canopy and choir. My lady’s lips are like the west coast of Ireland and must serve their purposeless purpose in a Kantian flood of emergent fire. 

Bob Dylan on a horse. 

Nothing pleases me more than mustard. The skin of night telling consonants of seashore, ravenous vowels mushrooming in a slop of intermediary rain. The elbow slams its grease on a wrinkle of steam and militates against stubble. This confers chewing and art and instinctively becomes a postmark slamming its door on a glistening abstraction. If I flop on the couch at 8:00 p.m. enfoldments of reverie recoil into catwalks and I can feel what pleasure there is in being an invention, an emotion so big it mirrors reality, a dream of slate and exotic biology. If there is a giant version of myself elsewhere in the universe let it be spectral and wear my eyes like a paper skidoodle. Let it stir into virtue. Let it become a mockingbird, a culture aloud on a spoon.

If I feel sticky at the airport let me flop and flap my way to a hole of wind and disappear into history like a simulacrum squirting headlights at the night. 

Picture a gold box containing a stillborn opera, something that would delight Joseph Cornell. Think of a smear of significance flirting with spoons on my forehead. Swerve it into accordions. Park it near a loaf of pumpernickel. Engorge it with clouds. Let it happen during an argument. Lean into letters amid the oarlocks of a foggy description.  

The reason I do this is simple: it makes me happy. I can throw a face at a thread of elevator spit and watch it exasperate sense with a strawberry and a rock in B minor.  

I don’t sneer at ears. No sir. Nor will I ever fully understand the personality I drag around. Death falls through a preposition and finds life attracting a crowd of astronauts. So be it. Bleeding is all about longhand, and the problems of the sidewalk sparkle with a peppery music. My wool is caused by syntax. And if we unite one another in writing our muscles will serve us taproots and the delicacy of dachsunds will glue itself to the water and bounce into parallels where the brocade turns pink and hippopotamus.  


Friday, September 18, 2015


I flow into the invocation enigmatic pungency. This is called interacting. We ripen in snow. Cram it with ermine. Möbius blue sputtering the truth of rain. Bump a monument under the air. The kinetic boat glue opened by pliers. Clutter and luxuriate in our pockets. My dab and deform the wiggle with skin. The hymn sends us jumping into a hammerhead’s hat brimming with Germany. My arms pause in mutation. It anchors a painted red and a white and blue seclusion, darkness and sympathy. My stick bumps the heart and fragrances, beggars, groans, dampness hook into this existence and there is a consequent conviviality and the light is a form of gasoline that weighs as much as a buttonhole. Plurality shows thought. Do you believe in singing? The sky is totally eczema. Below the authorization structure invites provocation. Moreover the form of a farm is in its livelihood. This is punches to a dirigible. Zip to a propagation. I came into this life riding on a comet. There is a quicker way to begin to be hectic. Reality is a shiver and a sweat and we lengthen the volume of thumbs. Radio is watched hugging one another. The hoist suspends the pipes in solid resilience. Let’s explore consciousness by spreading cowslip. Or swing it with a pendulum. The yardstick of the eye stirs handsprings. The stick stirs paint. I find a screw in the sawdust of sound and appetite. Redeem the profligacy of singing with a coiffure and an angle. The ooze swims with cockeyed worms. Representation obstructs its chains. We remain unconvinced. What can we do? We burn a colloquy and powder it and dangle. The Mediterranean is peppered with sticks. Circles of Apollinaire. The Cinnamon King whose earrings whisper artemesia. Powder blue ovals accelerate the noise of my skin. What does this say about pulse? The air reeks of wonder. Dictionaries are engines of thought. Intent and a lip in a system for reflection. A thunder that is snappy and bright, a biology like a jellyfish, a drink of coffee that crackles when the wind blows and the piano sweats and anything horizontal rattles in some way that we can share. The carp are riding the rails. The tie helps us to understand granite. The glimmer of goose bumps are instruments for making bourbon. The flop of extrusion in a mind of ice tastes of oblivion. Atmospheric pressure equiped with socks. Pain is the deformation of information. Glue is the adhesion of tin. The rain is a medication. I spit prescription. Power shouts adjectives and butter. A bird in a bottle and a stab of grammar petitions the adverbs to cohere into a concept. This is called spinning, or solving the mystery of glass with an ugly towel.



Wednesday, September 16, 2015

The Birthday Jump

I remember the first & only time I parachuted it was 1964 my 16th birthday a rite of passage if you will from the old man an aerospace engineer & former WWII B24 bomber pilot I practice-jumped from oil barrels taught how to fall back then when the time came & the plane got fired up & took us up high in the sky over Snohomish county mostly pretty farm country I got the signal & stood out on the little step & took hold of the wing strut with both hands wind blasting into my face & racketing my clothes & waited for the signal to let go the instructor inside a genial guy in his 30s counted down with his hand & shouted now! & I let go & tumbled crazily didn't remember anything I'd been taught I was senseless with terror then the chute opened I felt something scrape my neck & jerked like a puppet into air with the canvas ballooning over my head & realized there was something wrong with the left pull cord it was missing the men on the ground kept yelling at me from a little transistor radio pull your left cord! pull your left cord! & I kept yelling back I have no left cord! I have no left cord! I can't turn! I can't turn! but of course they couldn't hear  me it was a one-way radio they no doubt wondered what the hell I was thinking  they stopped yelling they must've just figured something was wrong with the radio I stopped yelling the silence was weird I'd never heard such silence birds went sailing by it surprised me I didn't think birds flew that high it was really nice floating in the sky but then as I neared the ground I worried over some high wires I barely cleared those then began drifting to a big field of freshly furrowed black dirt as a farmer in his tractor looked up watched me go over I was told not to look at the ground but I did I couldn't help it then wham my legs hit the ground a knee hit my jaw they warned me that might happen bite my tongue off but I stood up & was ok.


Wednesday, September 9, 2015

The Fluctuation of Pronouns in the Abalone Lounge

Hallucinations deepen and I pack my clothes. My robin is pretty. The endurance of feeling is unpredictable. Coffee juggles my nerves below pounds of cheerful light. The insoluble propinquity of memory is sewn by time. I spit propellers beneath the clouds. Heartache drips presumption. The sleep of angels moves us wide-eyed into the sublime. A New Bohemia. A place where the sand is soft and gravity bursts with eclipse. Pearl earrings repose on the floor. The seashore is an open structure. Sidewalks hold the world. Arms reaching singing out of their sleeves reaching for ablution. Glasses smeared with butter acquire the look of coughing and war. This will describe itself as a medication and then act in a play by an anonymous sparkle. My reactions to Renoir are sympathetic to rocks. There can be nothing without something to make nothing nothing for nothing without something is nothing and that is something. When the words grow tense we discover a light switch in which the screws have turned brown with age. The Excitement Sisters write a song about garbage. Description begins to mushroom. Daylight serves the slop of chaos. Without a little anger to fuel my grammar I’m just another nerve in the ramification of life. I curve by pronoun. A vaporous mood becomes a motion and that motion becomes an orange rolling across a table in a bistro. The careful thread of a wobbly personality skidoodles with all its muscle intact. I go to the bank. I drive a Subaru. A woman complements my Subaru. I rob the bank. The Subaru serves me well. Life continues. The hallucinations continue. We grow rattan. The sun shines down. Our skin is slippery. Reflections later turn gray in the mind. Gray is ok but blue is better. The imagery of heaven is all about flowers. The laundry drips by the shore. There is the shore of life and the shore of death and both are the same shore. I feel a hunger I don’t quite understand. It’s a hunger but not a hunger for food. Before I became a language I tried my luck at iodine. Despair is the flip side of hope. It’s a lesson I learned the hard way. It’s no wonder that I like philodendrons. The philosophy of the philodendron is dark and slow and carries more light than water. If there were no light there would be no darkness. There would only be fish. The comics are a kingdom of dots. I will build a blob that explains everything. I will explain granite and brass and the power of chiaroscuro. The blob will confirm the sounds of Montmartre. Blood is metaphysical. It carries oxygen and iron and oozes out of the skin when the skin is punctured or cut. You have to pay attention to these things. Mud exemplifies stamina. Silk warrants silk. Grumbling needs blue. Evocations of pink and violet. There is elegance in equilibrium but none in whistling. The horses yearn for a maneuver with lightning if it leads to confusion and apparels the hills with grazing. No universe is exact. The cuticles affirm this. You can yank a tomato from a bin of produce but you must rely on extraversion if you plan to expand the fluctuation of pronouns in the abalone lounge. This is why Kurt Cobain played his guitar in a cupboard. There is no ambiguity in footwear. There is the spirit to consider, and the lumber of reminiscence. Everything else is just silence and birthdays.