What Really Matters

I’m haunted by morning because your neck is beautiful and the blood is apparent in its audacity. Let’s bring a punching bag to the birthday party of a crawling kingsnake as structures howl for space and stir me like nothing else. A word crawls out of my mouth in fingers of mist. A Rolling Stone throws rocks at the moon. Wheels converse with the road and ripples turn into waves until a caustic puppet appears and crackles with Strindberg. Your heat feels so good my dear infinity bursts out of a garden and grows into meaning like coins of pure sterling. My mind is empty and parallel to a hug. Wrinkles and crinkles of skin jackknife into patches of blazing paragraph. The sparrows are so quick and alive that a turmoil flowers into a study of the Etruscans. We age together like hawks.

The garden is a component of dirt. Picasso is a word of sparkly syllables framed in fat perspective. My attitude is tilted toward properties of summer. Handstands venerate the earth. Let us chat and imitate dogs in an opulent hotel of popsicle stick machines beside the white chickens as the wind scribbles its thirst on a river. A swallow is an insoluble bird. I carry a rupture wherever I go. My pockets beg for sloth, the gnarled avidity of death. We slap the water instead and my pockets get personal and warm and correspond to clarinets. We are little streams to one another beside the post office our thoughts flow through one another like the algebra of coal or a canvas full of rain.

The greenery of morning is an out and out flower of congeniality an enthralled attitude and a shivering pavement. A painter sneezes the grammar of oak which is complex as an oyster if you get my drift. A head is for healing the erudition of rubber. Cotton redeems the audacity of flags which an evasion interprets gleefully in my heart of hearts as a decipherment of space. I cook a philosophy over my belief in the lotus. “Bomb” is a poem by Gregory Corso. It crackles like algebra in a hydrogen jukebox as we crash through the wall looking for Jim Morrison and go humming in the mud of the past as if it were Tuesday and rippled through a paragraph like this morning’s coffee. In other words, palominos in a pickle personify the spread of words.

Words are tangential to the duty of cabbage, which is to grow into convolutions. There is a literal confusion about metaphors. Structure cuts through a lobster. Its outer body has a coppery sheen. This is water whispering. Color steers toward volume. My belt buckle clangs when I walk. The guide is lost. I am diving into life in a book of tinkling shadows that squirts tattoos whenever I open it. Charcoal and enamel combine to mean Technicolor peacocks in a metaphor of clouds.

There is a feeling of arabesque as an odor meanders through my nose and a touch opens my anatomy to raw umber. I answer it by flowing into a road of vowels and midnight towels. The plot has dissonance and static I ruffle my feathers and howl. I see pink horses shout and push themselves around a porcelain washbowl in which soapy water glitters with stunning clarity. I push a gaze out of my eyes as my pen rattles with words. I try to get the words out of the pen there is an eagerness to do this and a spatial orientation that writhes among the syllables a drooling vowel hectic in battle expands into a door let me know if this is too impersonal and I will sail it beyond the horizon I am burning to say so burning to do that burning to represent language as a form of diffusion a formula for woodwinds a universe of trunks evoked by an elephant. I run and construct a whisper because the plywood merits pronouns and a haul of flip-flopping fish argues for seclusion. My words are your words. Let them sparkle like a liniment.

My cuts amuse. My beliefs are shiny. A word is a chrysalis of syllables. The ceiling sneers at the floor. I wander among the potatoes and wonder what saga best explains the architecture of rope. Sunlight simmers on a shoal of catfish. The river fulfills the dark purpose of perforation. The water answers with a conversation among introverts. Space drools with gravity up the side of a glass bowl with a tint of green.

Poetry is a device for understanding cocaine. We laugh at a blob of blue hooked to a harmonica. The need for music is great and seamless as an insect carved from granite. The shivering never stops. This whistles amid physical examples of Burgundy and the barrels gush with truth. Go, grab a dream and sleep. There are parables to discover. Sleep is immaterial. What really matters is being unconscious. That’s where the fun starts. The surfaces drop through themselves like paraffin and molasses and curves evolve into a deeper understanding of volume. I dream of a big trombone. Cartwheels moisten the lines of a poem with little fingers of rain over and over again. My pen is talking to me. It says anguish wars with definition, and I agree. Bones are enthusiastic. You can tell, because of their structure, and congeniality, and large crimson lake singing in a cemetery. The river keeps going, and the blisters clap their paradigms, smelling of mythology and boats.