Monday, September 13, 2010

Dream Of Distant Suns

First think of a knife and next to it a joke doing edges. This will only take a minute. Then tangential to a nimble France believe in a workshop for making snowshoes. And now I ask: how much does a mind weigh? Ten pounds of blue squeezed into cotton. Only later will it become a bruise.

The personality is catalogued more appropriately as a pumpkin, or species of conversation. The liberation of old apparitions dances a novel into cuticles and bulbs. Depth is alive in its heft. Opinions balloon in Montmartre. Duty is not the same as an elevator.

Here is the hem the elation erects. A canoe of monumental eloquence out to enthrall a scruple of feathers draws itself through the sentence creating vowels and waves. Dimension truffles are not the same as astronomy or eggs. There is a light which spoons the heart and causes gloves to mount impairment. Timelessness is always needed at the smell of abalone.

This is written while coffee, as pumpernickel, pleases feeling. It is dusty to gasoline the violin. Clumsy from almonds, I can tumble toward the synchronization of cardboard. Only heft is charming, and those are railroads. You will have to look here to see an elephant dipped in symptoms of jurisprudence. Grammar treads itself to shift a nerve or two into buckles.

Circumference is fast to honor its surface. The moon paraphrases a tide pool wherein the vowels are thrilling and slow. The mud sparkles into structure and ears. The bank denies its inertia. Grain from a surge of intent brings ocher to the heart as a shape inspirits the clouds.

The occurrence of mahogany means the table is a cat. Figure itself is square and exhumed and arms that fill the embroidery with an army of shades. A mink arrives in infinite ganglions. The sleep in delectation blazes a wilderness of stethoscopes and tigers. There is a winch which gives nature a lap and a ritual that swells into paradox, harmonies carved from chaos and a circle disturbed by parallels.

Bracken chafes the pilings. Flotsam bobs on a greenish water. There is a monster within that distorts the world to vapor and parenthetical odors leaning into it with pulse and neon. A hoe marks the ground. A kill becomes sand.

Semen is the same as legs. The sensation works its way up another punished universe where pleading is fast and sighing is mohair. Space stirs within a block of dimes. A pineapple umbrella entertains the asphalt. Decipherment exceeds its clothing.

Charcoal is a resource in feeling. A daub of paint becomes conspicuous when space holds the lake but not its propellers. The revelation is enhanced by fencing, or radiation. Etruscan spars give the air the subtleties of an indispensable racket that plays its way into ink and harmonicas. The paragraph turns green over its peculiarities, declaring a door that burns with elucidation.

The saga, tailored in its beginnings, turns naked in elation. Paint this road into your mind with a scrupulous predicament. Assemble a gaudy caboose. Swans break the hospital. Description sways with a spirit of process.

Interiors are personified by a stinging clutter, a certain clarity in fabric that fondles the eyes, dragging their scrutiny to a creaminess invented by Braque. They scribble themselves toward the upheaval of clouds. Name at least one sensation that doesn’t ignite a guitar. The house houses itself by blueprint and snow, not a mawkish suppository of perfunctory stucco.

Being examines its blisters, exceeding itself by imitating an algebra of roots and boiling modulations of punctual blue. It is natural to push a wrinkle into grammar. But do not expect the bones to get up and dance. The air is indulged on a string of words. Echoes perturb the adjectives imposed on the structure of a fast consciousness heaving with autumn and infrared hats.

What is required is an aesthetic that reclaims trigonometry, performs like Buffalo Bill, adheres to unpredictable planets, and washes infinity in ghostly thermometers. Flirt it stern, then tickle it around. Hobnob in the ceiling. Gold and jellyfish smell of pulse. Be parliamentary by denying the next plague.

But be wise by accepting willow. The sawdust is much admired by our staff in the lumberyard. Consonants clean the explosion of thought in a cap of increase. Not since circles were circles did a rectangle seem so modular. An odd emotion modeled on cedar illumines the incense, and a brain bent by oak maps itself as a bent idea.

Ideas bent into moonlight smell of evocation. A song of red, a poem by Stephane Mallarmé, a sorcerer soothing a wild ocean. The glaze of a kneecap can shine like a fugue unbinding a terrible moose. Carry a jug in syntax peremptorily cornered by sound. Flap that sky into Picasso, headlights innovating the highway in their dream of distant suns.


Steven Fama said...

"What is required is an aesthetic that reclaims trigonometry, performs like Buffalo Bill, adheres to unpredictable planets, and washes infinity in ghostly thermometers."

That is precisely, exactly, and perfectly said!

Thanks John, for this poem!

John Olson said...

Thanks, Steve!