How does one reconcile reason with divinity? Drukpa Kunley’s erection stupefies a demon, while I pull a buffalo out of a retina. I’m equipped with sympathy and shirts. Personality caulks the leakage of wool, and forms a court plaster for the inelastic and Pennsylvania Dutch. I see life as a long emblem similar in quality to wind, though with messages written on it for one’s progeny. Imagine Drukpa Kunley at a Home Depot. Crimson dilates the birth of desire and Christmas lights festoon Drukpa Kunley’s dick, flashing on and off in an ecstasy of zeal, as if a drop of sound could be shaped into a word, and that word was ‘hydrogen.’ Or ‘pelican.’ Or cambium.’ Or ‘Ishallassoboundbewilsothoutoosezit.’ Success is a lure that never succeeds. Swans are signs and semen is warm and medieval. Language is simultaneously interior and exterior, as is consistent with faith and reason. You are in a cathedral of tools. Wheelbarrows auger bits edgers chainsaws caulking guns trowels cutters wire strippers pliers drop lights hammers. The shovels swarm with emotion. The vespers of eyebrows brews the cause of a livid tacamahac. Why does consciousness choose to annul itself under the form of desire? I see what I see, not what I want to see. Why does this keep happening? This entropy, this innovation, this Ptolemaic stepping stone to Dionysia? Once the world has been renounced, the desire to possess it is accentuated, which is the very meaning of the world. The adjectives awaken to pain. Cheddar mollifies the slap of eternity. The problem is always uncertain and can turn on the tension of a moment. There are certain pharmaceuticals for this, and they look like beans. The strange beans of fable, in which the sound of the rain is charmed and delicate and charged with life. The truth of the noun filters life through the ovum of withdrawl. I write because it’s perverse. And trickles with brass and scholium and comedy and puppets. My hand is a frenzy of filaments. I tremble to affirm this fever. There are hundreds and hundreds of cows and cowboys slouched on their horses, sleeping in the rain. Today’s social paradigm kills the Quixotic urge, but your modern cowboy stays true to his rope and saddle, lassoing the stray doggie when the herd scatters and the wind howls. This is demonstrated by the swaying of feathers on the back of a snake. Life is complex, contradictory, and laced with fugitive sensations. Dagwood sits down beside Drukpa Kunley and utters a truth so large he turns paler than yak milk. The tension between faith and reason is resolved by absurdity. It surprises me how much I’d like to get in a car right now and speed away into the night listening to old Rolling Stones songs. Mineral rights are ticklish. It helps to think of everything as a form of grammar, an iron emotion obtruding from the tongue of a Pythagorean sombrero. Shadows amuse the irregular shapes of purgatory. Consciousness comes into existence when it is conscious of being conscious, and Drukpa Kunley goes for a walk in the morning, his heart like an open drawer stuffed with the drug of language.