Put your popcorn down the concertina and beans a gargantuan emotion is about to become gasoline and explode into talk conversation is inherently panoramic a parable of the sky in a stellar library gurgling loafs of idea rain in a jar armed with a powerful grip. A sorcerer will restore the kangaroos as a light explores the room with an oboe and a hoe it will deepen our sense of cosmology and sparkle among these lines as if envy were a seminal condition for silk and turned into an airplane not softly like a wheel but emphatic like a decision sometimes a bath will feel personal and include some semen and deepen our sense of cosmology and sometimes a wink to the mink will punctuate speech. I don’t know what I’d do without Cézanne lift a chisel and carve a wave breaking on the sand maybe or create an attitude in tin read adult magazines and watch the swallows under the bridge the pulley squeaks as I bring the laundry in and Jack London sits at his desk blossoming into an incentive. There are properties employed in poetry such as donkeys and postulation surreys are used for contrast if we choose to navigate the solar system we must also employ a horoscope and our favorite irritation. A knife tumbling through the air is always unpredictable because a parody is almond and our elbows are on the table. The imagery of birth is grotesque the natural thing to do is run away as hard as you can and find a wad of money in the snow rub the calliope and the genie will tell you where to find the nutmeg it’s up there high on the topmost shelf. We should smell boycotts and brushwork by spring which a jaunty elf reproduces by exhalation further away in time and space is a tornado just as it is beginning to acquire real power let’s go scrounge for another parable something implicit in linen the ink is bubbly with umbrellas and I can make out a coast baroque with rocks and aerial splendor a dancing bear carved in ivory on a palette of rain and a sonnet assembled with glue and intuition. The light has a peculiar hue and there are roots descending into the earth socks tumbling in a dryer that grandeur we find in ourselves during times of catastrophe agrees with that ever present glow of hope the thin gaze in a milk of paradise hints of Alaska and a group of lost astronauts passing through a door. Morality is hirsute with bears on the road of excess earth bursting out of itself shouting has a vertical dimension in climbing a stepladder we feel our inner wounds swelling into language the larynx damp with vowels the process is like a staircase a symptom of terminal baseball the space is spherical and wild and drooling like a hill. There is sunshine below a pretty smile even the gantry has an odor it smells like a tiger hugged by its reflection in a pool of unearthly water surrounded by lush Indian greenery. Ocher is not a good color for vanity I would recommend the orange in a fire leaping around a Russian doll. And let’s face it genitalia male or female is Byzantine and curious like a dream of oysters. Meanwhile a new paradigm is being assembled from sandstone and the origins of life the cows are titanic long and sweet like the antiphons of plainsong. We discover our truer natures in plays while it is a serious duty to hoist our deeper wounds into view using metaphors of blood squirting during surgery in a palace of ice. There is a climate of sexual linoleum and a rack of rifles as the afternoon approaches outwardly pious but inwardly golden in its sense of seclusion it’s a start not a conclusion consciousness under a hat chowder in a chipped bowl words swimming in a book there is no yardstick to measure piety only buffalo grazing by the river the contraption is linguistic by that I mean writing writing is not a club anyone can join one word to another word and discover the residual language of a foreign perspective the proverbial brass ring the green stepladder luxuries such as feet and pineapple fingers the sky is a soft hazy intuitive blue it’s time now to contact the mud get down and dirty feel the inscrutably sweet milieu of fantasy and calculus such as Leibnitz originally intended it fluxions of magic the exaltation of walking this path leads to Buddhism heave forward rippling toward the shore push yourself into hunger perceptions of depth brushes dipped in red apples and eggnog anticipate the sublime pain is often linked to pleasure and revolt newly minted on a tongue of gold consciousness sparkling in a syringe soft and squishy as grease it is a milieu of folds and convolutions it is more spoon than fork more fork than knife highways of red ants and distant buttes elevators going up elevators going down sticky fingers murmuring of sexual dreams the smell of freshly baked bread.
John Olson is the author of Backscatter: New And Selected Poems, from Black Widow Press, Souls Of Wind, a novel about the notorious French poet Arthur Rimbaud in the American West, from Quale Press, and The Nothing That Is, an autobiographical novel from Ravenna Press. Larynx Galaxy, a collection of essays and prose poetry, appeared in June, 2012, from Black Widow Press. The Seeing Machine , a novel about French painter Georges Braque, is forthcoming from Quale Press.