The sentence is a device for indulging the cuticles of the crow. The miniscule, the huge, the ugly, the beautiful, the beautifully ugly, the disgustingly beautiful. It is the gargantuan revelation of an abstract interior clarified in coffeehouse butter. Sensations cemented sympathetically in a Pullman raspberry. Iron succeeds in evocation precisely because of this. The same might be said of the stethoscope. It, too, is a device. It, too, yields the heartbeat of a long lost highway. The geography of nerves surrounding a shaker of salt. The weirdness of pain. The glamour of signs refining the havoc of speech.
It must be supposed that experience is not merely a passively received phenomenon but a creatively structured aggregate of sensation and string. Plaster and incense and the friendly chiaroscuro of caramel locomotives reposing in a Tuscany barn.
If the predicate appears to assume mass, you must attach it to a subject before it stiffens into refrain, or gravitates into theory.
If the dime were orthogonal, its surface would be velvet.
Time and distance bind the pages of the universe. Processions of words cohere into shadow and thorn.
Talking Lobster, fifty miles ahead, said the sign.
The lobster turned out to be this real fat guy floating in an inner tube with two huge Styrofoam pincers and a bottle of tequila tucked between his legs. But what’s strange is that the guy really did say some pretty stunning things. He said that eyebrows were profligate allegories visiting the forehead with the express purpose of evacuating blood to the nearest fedora.
If you cannot find a fedora, one will be provided.
Sometimes a sentence will have a fragile translucence, like a glass railroad, and plunge forward in a syntax of sheer momentum, the glitter of a locomotive chandelier swarming with ravenous eyes.
Daub is such a lovely word, I will not use it in a sentence, unless it is a sentence of vertical embroidery, like a breakfast tumbled into a kitchen sink and abandoned until afternoon, when someone finally gets around to doing the dishes. The crab abandons its body and flutters into maturity. The sensations are cemented in sympathy and put into circulation. Abstraction’s palette elevates the scene into a drama of doublets and rapiers. What you would hardly expect, this being Wyoming and all.
Here I am in the doorjamb, leaning into the light, like in a Bob Dylan song, when someone leaves in a fit of pique and sorrow and the atmosphere becomes electrically charged, the elation of muscle twisting the bones of a poetry engine into a simulacrum of grace.
Or the sentence bursts into asphalt, and succeeds at mindful clean singing, coffee tossed to the back of the throat while the morning is still young and beautiful, and the stethoscope sparkles, hanging from the rearview mirror, while a leviathan sixteen wheel rig approaches from behind.
Many sentences can be explained by the art of persuasion, for that’s what life does when it begins to grip the controversy of diagnosis, and the modification of meaning by way of the goldfish propellers, as clarified by the roles in predication. Good purposes are often served by not tampering with vagueness. Vagueness is not incompatible with precision. A painter with a limited palette can achieve more precise representation by thinning and combining her colors than a mosaic worker can achieve with a variety of tiles, and the skillful superimposing of vaguenesses can persuade even the most dubious that a dollop of bells decrees the advantage of eggplant over the demands of Goya’s monsters.
We discover that the universe is not static, it is expanding.
For further information, contact Guillaume Apollinaire, at Père-Lachaise Cemetery, 15 Boulevard de Ménilmontant.