I like crowds gatherings swarms I can’t say why maybe it’s the profusion I’m in love with profusion a surge of words for example words in a swarm of description words floating tumbling spilling through the mind as if the mind were a huge arena an empty space in the skull and light entering through the eyes was without substance or meaning until the energy of the light its photons activated nerves traveled in electrical impulse congealed commingled coagulated assumed the weight and form of meaning something red something shiny something viscous something urgent and moving like blood the way blood will appear on the skin after a thin barely perceptible cut and will bead and smear and eventually coagulate forming one day a scab.
It is sweet to carry an umbrella I must go public with this I will use antennas sticks goldfish apples sparklers myriad currents morning in the mountains mirrors and camels.
Nothing escapes necessity except the necessity to escape.
The world is a place of migration constant pursuit dusty banging cars meat bumped into action moving dunes cracked hands anarchic winds. You never know when it might rain but the desert is always encroaching. The hunger for freedom persists like a glowing metaphor the biography of time a palace in the clouds waves crashing on the shore blobs of meaning splayed on the sand gelatinous transparent lustrous.
Kerosene is a proposal a puff of breath on a feather.
The restaurant was closed. It had its own atmosphere. Clusters of hyacinth scintillating brocades a parable of green stirring as a summer in Seattle.
Glue speaks to the point of adherence, and adheres. The farm is an abstraction. Only the lonely recognize it as a place of pragmatic heresy. Fatalism is an oversimplification, like carving a bank robbery out of a Texas drawl.
Lust in a caress demonstrates the soul of the apricot a handkerchief inflated into a bird perched high and defiant on a finger of stone gargling the literature of the heart.
Description grows eyes. I feel purple. I want to linger here. Electricity is amazing. Have you ever played bingo during a lightning storm? Each muscle fulfills the motivation of bone.
Thought is a form of exploration. Thought renders life more agreeable, although some adjustments may be necessary, a little water tossed into the air a transcendental hat a palomino on a surfboard instants before it swells into a theory whose circumference sprawls over the terrain like sunlight.
This flowing this silver this business of writing is like finding mounds of cocaine on a Peruvian mirror I am awed by the alchemy of words odors that reflect the discourse of the forest upside down and Fauve the private sensations of genitalia the feeling of romance waxed like a console in the hall of mirrors at Versailles then pushed into morality or joined into sticky halves of DNA hippopotamus or slug the song of a mockingbird the hectic antithesis of insects.
The ground shakes the details of the horizon the phenomenon is delicate arms akimbo. I feel old but malleable. Can a lobster fly? Of course it can. It is like an anthology of poetry: another form of willingness.
Cotton is entirely mental but it can be worn with an air of moody approval or immersed in suds until it fades into broad-minded images of granite. Heady abstractions. Eyes floating in a bowl of milk.
Distance evokes the sky, which is indispensable for a diagnosis of turmoil.
Evocation rides the dragons of discourse. The sky bends into a worried look. The logic of glue implies contingency. Propositions are complex entities bound together in a certain way. There is syntax, which is a species of glue, and semantic properties, harnessed together by declension and chain to form new, complex relations. Milwaukee. Mania. Sedimentation. Stars in a puddle, oarlocks and collar studs, a giant crystalline lobster tap-dancing on a treadmill.
A constellation of drums excites a conception of art based on the weather. And when we arrive in Limoges, the thunder dissolves into punctuation. A river curves into the color ocher. The MGM lion runs down the aisle of the theater with an intestine in its mouth.
If you wrinkle a sheet of tinfoil in your hands a certain way you will discover a passion for politics, undress, and do fifty-two push-ups.
A skull unearthed in Denmark adorns the dashboard of a red Mustang convertible. We have all made this voyage at one time or another. We have all watched as the rain moved over the crest of a mountain in a veil of ephemeral agitation and felt the first few drops on our skin as we hurried to clear the picnic-table and make it back to the car before the heavens opened and the rain came down in torrents.
All the world requires an epilogue, a perfume or equation that expresses our essence, our endeavor to find rebirth in stone and quietude.
Deliverance comes in vermilion, gallant and stirring.
The sunlight surrenders its strawberries. The night secretes its definitions of pain. Larynx and eyeball bloom in the sun. A huge black snake weaves its way through a sentence, following an apparition of meaning, some possibility of warmth, references to worlds and times that map our relation to the universe and bring some materiality to the gauze of our understanding.
I see it all in a painting. In a still life by Cézanne. Undercurrents of sexual fury in a bowl of fruit. The sheen of initiation. The shine of expiation. The wobble of wood. The penchants of peach.
Finally, we turn to algebraic approaches. The ability to disengage oneself from a concrete situation. A combat, for instance, or riot. It isn’t adequate to say that speech equals thought. It just isn’t.
What one can say is this: a man speaks as a lightbulb becomes incandescent, that is, without any idea of why.
Feeling inclines toward feeling and detours are genial when the yearning is soft.
The Swamp Drains Trump
18 hours ago