Handsprings draw my enthusiasm. But a contact soaked in a rolling nutrition bursts with power, and cannot be denied. I must contact the resin. I like you, dear reader, whoever you are. Do you remember the Reverend T. Lawrence Shannon? The bus? The Mexican hotel? I am painting you a picture of pyromania. The world needs calliopes. Violins in the windows. Windows in blueberries. I feel the voyage turn turpentine. There is something beneath my heart. I will call it a vowel. I will urge the use of fiddlesticks. There is a form of initiation in the writing of poetry that requires crawling. There is also a form of language that makes you squirt monuments. Our cookies lure the bears. Our jackknives perspire. A confusion collects kaolin and does what a jaw does. That is to say, dream. My bones are enjoying a romance with thought. I feel suitably benevolent, and signal codeine to a thermodynamic folklore.
Silly me. I forgot to hurl myself into the water. I’ve been dogpaddling all this time in thin air. What you call codeine, I call mood. For that is my mood. Mood is when a Rembrandt copper exhales England. Mood is the antique spigot that sweetens metamorphosis with the foam of a thousand twilights. I foster a loud nebula of grasping arabesques. This, too, is a mood, only with a little plumage to the poop. Shift your body to starboard. I am hauling a callous acceptance. The jokes about the hothouse are dripping with redemption. A puddle of wool opens its lips and emits a long vital tongue. It urges conference. We harden to hear it talk. It is to be assumed that we are all familiar with the art of fencing. Invocations such as this fold naturally into a raw sienna and delineate the properties of an energetic bug. Think of this as a dime. A small fragment of metal urging the radical clarity of an outboard religion.