Have you seen my Pythagorean hat? Each time I reflect on the world, it crackles with lightning. Numbers taste of andouille, and the attitude of the willow turns red with planets.
I am following a spirit in denim through a mouth of stone. Shadows hold the secret of abandon. I sweat drops of horsepower. I use the dew of the moon for money. I wear fingerprints and alcoholic shoes. I am on a voyage of numbers. The number two is a watercolor. The number three is a surgeon lifting a strange shape from the internal organs of a mosquito. The number five is lost in the number four and the number four is five minus nine.
But then, you already knew that.
Here is something new: there is a fugue on the table. It was pushed through the stove of an artist where it baked into pure presence. The pure presence of music, which is the very embodiment of audacity, and depends on numbers, like a thrilling Irish summer, or a nebula of words giving birth to a library.
Language is more accurately described as a river than an ocean. I can feel its current moving me along in thought as a saga gallops through the art exhibit looking for Peter Green. Outside, the wind stirs up dead leaves, all dry and wrinkly like the parchment of a dead scribe. A metaphor blazes on a bed of creosote. A pumpkin combines cogency with circularity. Its pi tastes of crocodile, and its diameter gurgles the rivets of a far eastern bridge.
I have luxurious tastes. When sunlight hits the wall of the house next door, I can see the grooves in the shingles. A giant snake uncoils on a rock and slithers east. Spirits sing as they dissolve. Something wet and ductile tastes of perception. The energy of the day’s elegy is strong with the flavors of the earth. The scent of the dying. The scent of the freshly born. The smell of the stars in their baldness of will.
The smell of the taxi is visceral. A raw sienna winched from the fireworks of a pneumatic goatee. If watercolor causes virtuosity, then what is your opinion concerning pockets?
Take your clothes off. Now tell me, how does it feel?
Martin Scorsese plays a trumpet in the rain. Baudelaire does my hair. I feel propulsive and wet. Shadows bounce through my thirst. My mood is twisted into a hammerhead. My gloves are slow, but tolerant. The heart of this sentence weighs 15 tons. But it’s not done yet. There are more nouns to add, more verbs and adverbs. When it is finished, I will know the denominator of velvet. I will know the factor of sleep. I will know the formula for moonlight.
The climate of thought folds into a bicycle. The late new emotion crackles with broccoli. Arthur Rimbaud embraces the body of dawn. There are certain colors that penetrate my being and give me joy. One is the color of the pavement as it ripples through the sugar of apology. Another is the red smoke pouring out of André Derain’s tug on the Thames. And there is a certain blue that occurs in the midst of a vowel as the cowboys sit around a fire discussing Plato’s Republic.
Or is it the varnish of a guitar? I don’t know. As soon as the engine starts, the propeller turns, creating confusion in the water. Bubbles and foam. That sort of thing. Like when the rain is charged with pathos and you see Bessie Smith walking down the street.
Yes, you could say I’m wordy, but it is circumlocution that heals the sores of cynicism.
Look: there is a universe in this shoebox. It resembles the architecture of the heart. You can touch its wrinkles. Swirl its stars. It is a friendly milieu. Explicit as an apparition pinned to a blue wall. Or indigo stirring the rocks in the morning of a thermometer.
As for the color of my hat, it is the color of ferns in the forest embracing a deep solitude. A universe of numbers forged in a chord of irrational roots. The sun is coming out, and we see the strength of the earth as the stars recede into space, and an evergreen blazes with light.
The mathematics of splashing is hoarse with ecstasy, which is why cats are so fascinated by things falling to the floor.
If bingo equals being, then balloon equals odyssey, overriding a timeless moccasin as a kink in the escalator displays the elegance of combat. It follows that the Gaussian rationals from a number field which is two-dimensional as a vector space over Q will produce syrup, and that a morning painted with two brushes and a circle is apples. Therefore the square of a rational non-integer is always a worm, and the square root of an integer is always either another integer, or irrational structure, like a clitoris, or hat.
Into the Cold and Dark
1 day ago