Tendencies to Exist

Physicists speak of “tendencies to exist.” Matter at the subatomic level does not exist with certainty at specific locations or definite times and in identifiable form, but rather show “tendencies to exist,” “tendencies to occur.” The tendencies are expressed as mathematical quantities which take the form of waves. These are abstract mathematical waves, not the kind of waves that slop over the edge of a boat and get you wet. They’re the kind of waves that give reality a certain feeling and flavor and happily elusive character. You get wet, but you get wet in a different manner of wetness. The water is wet. Blood is wet. Coffee is wet. Reality is dry. Dry and wet simultaneously. At particular points in space and at particular times you will see a creek glitter and frogs plop and trout jump and the mauve outlines of mountains in the distance.

Mountains with fireweed and shooting stars and fairy trumpets. Mountain harebell, blue columbine, wild geranium. Tendencies to root. Tendencies to pollinate. Tendencies to iridesce.

I speak of semantic blooming. Action bursts into a slammed shadow and gets reality rolling. I present scribbles so that boiling has a presence and bouillon is a soup. If my unclenched proverb glorifies the landscape the wall will vivify the cause behind cubes. I sweep the bistro to symbolically radiate a bashful talk. Speech is a painting that I need to bring outside like a nail or popcorn. Experience is cinnamon and the reason is a studio that opens to moss. Mallarmé arrives by bus.

The smell of an accordion serves to admonish the bitumen if a sound is discovered among its syllables to be raining. My strain is this paragraph I build with flaming rumination. I’m not kidding. The history is green and smells of chowder. I feel the process branching into rattan. Bone can support life if our confusion is bruised by too much logic and the semantic candy bursts into itself.

A life moves toward a confusion of snow. A feeling of electrons evokes Grand Forks and a vision of icy particles on the windshield turns the wipers into a court of appeals. Bob Dylan sings "Queen Jane Approximately" on the radio. Metaphor is stuff that fattens meaning by folding two separate realities into avoirdupois. Despite anything corduroy, the radio has two dials with a soft blue glow and a potter's wheel insouciance for Minotaurs and slackers. There is a labyrinth, but it's not in the radio. It's out there on the prairie glistening in the moonlight. Trails in the snow. Trails leading nowhere.

Peter and Gordon. Who remembers them? “A World Without Love.” “I Go to Pieces.” "Lady Godiva."

The ocean has hills and busy pronouns carpenter syllables out of wood and rope so that the sentence may sail and the canvas flap and make its grammar clap hands with the wind. Can you hear the curls and mirrors? You can argue the shadows if they rise. I see a gull that sees me. Infinity behind the taxi.

A mindful awareness of bone remedies the sticky cognition of struggle. Yawning hops along in a semantic seashore ornamented with mountains.

Shake my arm we need to walk into the understanding that our language provides by speculation. There are charms in wrestling. Incan jewelry shining in the Andean sun.

Every cause has a version every version has a tone. Wiggle and rub what shield you have. The sky above is not what you think it is. It anticipates our visit. The mind will plough it. The concertina will linger it. The particles will make it big and blue and polynomial.   

Angels and clouds. Winds and benedictions. Forces of density will rub my face and make it into a situation. A little henna combined with churning arranges the curled sounds of a fiddle into a song understood as an embassy of air to a world of mythology and bells.

Have I left anything out? Yes. I have forgotten the glow. The glow below. The glow above. The glow inside. The glow of glows. The glow of stars. The glow of morning. The glow of snow. The glow of grace. The glow of syllables shifting in space.