The Birch Doctrine

The birch doctrine in summer summons emeralds. Algebra is friendly to the lucidity of evergreen and exempts many further allegories from incessant vinegar. A metaphorical bistro has been emphatic. Mohair by the aerodrome, a bikini by the mushrooms. Virtue, in a later pyramid with a bone black expansion, wheels forward on an oath of oak and popcorn.

Fiction is square as well as ripe and flavored with nature. Ocher is the path to mustard and its emotion gives a hunger to the inflation of carp. A jungle in cake, a napkin pinned to a hungry wind. A diagnosis fondles a mirror pulled out of a disease of bone and drum. The Rio Tinto zinc mines which aggressively drag around on stilts are further symptoms of pith.

Libraries are better suited to the greed for grammar. The kind of grammar predicated on angora, dirt, and portulaca. Fireworks pulled from a ball of gurgled hallucinations. The ascension is detailed in oblivion. Perception alters the pickles.

A funny morality exhumed from a hive of wasps teaches us ideas of jackknifed coagulation. Morning scribbles its abstractions on a pumpkin. A wild time dangles from a violin. And a bald trombonist pulls a fold of protoplasm out of a wallet to pay for an impersonal consonant. One must always draw the clutter of life as if it were both vulgar and parenthetical.

The vowel I discovered on the top of my head was heavy and red, like a scratched mineral. Apollinaire unrolled the lotus of his mind and varnished it with wisdom. Medicine left us all feeling new and grand. Knots of verbal fiber inched its way toward a deeper meaning in a stew of prose and luscious hysteria. Greed murdered a goldfish.

The galaxy, in its elegance, felt visceral, as if a pineapple had rolled out of the door and into the hallway, tripping one of the neighbors I dislike. There is a door in the pigment opening to a wonderful seclusion percolated through a cone of isinglass and morphine. Each muscle is personified by an engine of spinning chairs. The humor of it is total flagstone, hectic with heat and paper.

The crab, contrasting with the hammer, has been reluctant to settle down and do crab-like things. Blood, meanwhile, comes in daubs, haunted and serious. The sternum collar stud has married the chair to its gloss. Our drawers are filled with summer, little potpourris of sloth and shittimwood. Below the aurora is a neck in the river that holds the secret of itself in cottonwood and willow.

My intent climbs to my mouth and jumps out in words over which I appear to have no control. Even the butter of morning bends into fish. A buffalo exclaims headlights are the eyes of a grizzled cacophony peremptorily rubber. I believe in nothing but my own two axioms: description is shaky, and bitumen is solemn. Mass and density are two sides of the same halitosis.

Crawling is enriched by hands. Grow strong from hammers. Touch the trapeze upon the pulling of it toward you. Then swing. Swing in squirts, like a rubbed tube of precipitous tinsel.

Smack that oar against the water and splash the clouds with camaraderie. Nothing exists that has not been mouthed by the smell of effusion. Coordinates scribbled on a café napkin, or a trumpet wrapped in silk. Those sweet experiences we sometimes hear in the fragrance of sheer endeavor. Algebra, with its surge of symbols, creates a feeling of consciousness, faucets arranged by kinetic mosquitoes in a dream of beauty.

Astronomy makes itself available, then later photogenic meat. Everything has a certain weight to pull. Stars, or zippers, things you would not expect interfaced with thousands of inconceivable sensation, walks on the beach, an anchor descending into the water, a romance littered with jokes. The baking of sexual dollars in the Federal Reserve inflates a phantom wealth impregnated by a syringe of gooey improbability. The brushed fangs of an unbridled autumn converging with the tender meat of a day old harmonica.

There are some irritations that turn peculiarly aesthetic. Others are just plain irritating. A stove, annotated with strips of chrome, awakens the palpability of watts in its coils of gloss and glory, then recedes into shadow when the light is turned off. I have no further thoughts on this. My words revolt, grinding the world to a swollen indeterminacy, irritating critics, but otherwise providing a platform for the reverie of crickets. The metaphysics of a jerky chiaroscuro warming the shadows of a vagrant cantata plunges the rest of the story in straw.