Where The Sky Begins

In the hospital, odors are ghosts. Or is it the other way around? Or both?

I believe it is both.

How long does it take for blood to congeal? The mind goes in circles because the stars turn round the world. Depth is a presence. The sting of usury trumpets the bones of pessimism.

Long is the drool that requires a paragraph. It is because I am a mental banana that I am able to luxuriate among such great principles. Virtues such as memory. Emotion. Stationary.

Yesterday I saw Bill Murray in a yellow hardhat read a poem by Emily Dickinson to a room full of construction workers. It was moving. Sometimes it is the boat that it is obvious, but the oars that are perverse.

A chair drifts toward the squash. The fugue is personal, though it is disturbed by pirates. All the images are swollen. The wind cannot be caught. Even the prodigality of larks must sometimes traffic in nerves.

The gun exceeds the spirit of its use. You must caress the anomaly of its barrel. The tongue is swallowed by the ear. Chaos tastes of violence. This is why the glockenspiel must be removed from the cemetery.

Are these warts? Or misunderstandings?

Sometimes I feel like a cloud of steam, a bump of implications from ear to ear. But I have bacon, sweetheart, and a heart to go with it.

My mind drifts toward Schubert. The monster of his music is symbolically cold, but warm at the core, where the melody is born, and I have an irresistible desire to describe peanuts.

My studio is small, and smells of wildcats. My blood is warm. Would you like to be my friend? I will play the accordion for the swans in the park. I will be moral, like the arm of a phonograph. Remember vinyl? Remember literature?

The rain is raw. It’s time to leave now. Time to fold the air and put it into pronouns. Cause and effect are but the oars of logic. It is denim that perpetuates the scenery.

Summer swims in my veins. What is most desired in life is not the mythology of the universe but its reality. Quarks and dolphins. Vowels and consonants.

Opium makes a beautiful cloud. My palomino spoon reflects the orchard and the river blesses its movement.

Walls are temporary. Art is permanent.

I can be elliptical. But I can also be ardent.

The collar stud bounces off the crab and lands in a painting. Yellow churns between red and black. The intellect is of universals, the senses are of particulars. This is why I have decided to pack my mind in a suitcase and leave for parts unknown.

Language is the last frontier. If you happen to see a gauze curtain hanging in the window of a caboose, ask yourself, what would infinity feel like in French?

Communion requires pews. But language requires mouths, and at least 18 pounds of potassium chlorate.

The sky begins on my skin. It is warm. It is boundless. It is chirping melodiously on a branch of words.