A Pound of Consciousness for the Production of Suds

Step respectably through your sleep. There is a cure in the curve. Rattle a dream. Let us talk as the propeller churns the water and pulls down movement. Figure a lip. Ask the man of bitumen if he can heal a cow by fondling a velvet button. The aluminum sweats. The river sighs among its ensemble of rocks and argues prospects of old lumber with transcendental nails. The canvas flaps and hammers at the pink horizon and cuts the sky into folds of Byzantine undulation. Proposals of French simmer at the thermometer and although the moose is monotonous the amber is mean. I sob to consider the ravages of age and demand a pound of consciousness for the production of suds.

Money convulses under the strain of a massive torrential paragraph. The predicament is various and writes itself into a wilderness of boundless speculation and leaves fluttering and odors exploding and siren songs drifting from a region where there appears to be a lot of water doing what water does best. Create moss and apples. The words pull themselves into a fiction. A fable of woven silk. They evolve into a large butterfly with diabolical colors and fangs drooling rabid ideas of language. It takes wing. The landscape below is patterned with the labor of farmers. Money convulses in the bank. The sound is twitching. It is fat and violent.

Yesterday I saw hundreds of crows fly south in a loose formation. They appeared to be in a party mood. The world seemed incidental, like the shadows in a cemetery. A place of epitaphs and memory and stone. I’ve always thought of bas-relief as a form of pronouncement in stone. Crows are more like omens. Ghosts denote loss. Locomotive abstractions boiling with solitude.

Words are ghosts. They play absences like characters in a play. They enlarge the sovereignty of existence. They’re placentas of meaning that evolve into huge civilizations. Moody turns of thought that jerk and argue against the thunder and waves of the ocean. It’s why sideboards differ from belts. In the house of language the rattle and squirt of hot acetylene words solder stories of heavy frame and recognition. Railroads ape the fight for conquest. Saloons enhance the character of spurs. Angels scratch themselves feeling the nascent rub of warm and garrulous wool. The hills are folded into oddities of rock and grass. Swallows thread the meadows. Spring flexes its muscles. A stream of people escape the drudgery of a sleeping expressway. Sometimes it helps to swim. Consider space as a diagnosis of hats. The result is a buckle. The sublime is washed in rain.