Thursday, October 3, 2013

Mystic Kinetic Cut

I pour some coffee while the hibachi coals are dying the scales of the dragon twinkle I snap crackle pop I am a greenhorn recently jingled it means my words are blooming and you and I should get kinetic together. Our footing is composed of feet our syllables are impelled by breath a pencil rolls across the table I like to travel I grow into cats and prowl it’s a typical afternoon I pound the wall expecting slaps and Jean Paul Sartre instead I get my curves greased and a garden fascinates the senses.
The drum is a device for rhythm and there is a celebration in my knees I load my ribs with paradigms I gallop across my skin I am brooked by a wall my prophecies are steamed into wallpaper my cracked hands uncurl over a revelation mohair sparrows chowder and Bach.
Our ache is a general ache unpredictable and gallant anything can happen and often does this isn’t chronological no but it’s wiggling and apparitional a hypothesis sails at dawn with a spectrum of violent colors let us scream acceptance let us perforate the sneer of need.
I feel a little pink as I merge with emptiness the linen redeems the cutlery a bowl of walnuts is reached by the tongue of a soubriquet a little import named Arbuckle points to the door of a garage if I change into a stick a cyst of pathos will ensue the wood is beautifully grained can we assume that construction with nails hammers drills is a conversation held together by mutual interests and dangling modifiers move your finger along the frame of the painting see how it explodes into a river this is how the day unfolds this is how I flex my alphabet and tether all circumstance to a structure of words. The alphabet is expansive and plump. I beat my fists against the wall I hear the engine of a fishing boat a deformation of sound roiling the air this palette is thick with black watch as I draw an amendment for the constitution of a washbowl.
I polish the surface of a river with a rag of sunlight and feel magisterial I am swarming with bees sweet and shiny and copper the radiator explodes into a river and somewhere near Rocky Neck an egg in a nest of white feathers cracks and a form with wings newly made emerges the boat breaks and a plot opens the grass of the cemetery is charming and green death is a puzzle no one returns to tell us about it they just stumble across the heavens like clumsy brains of sunset vapor.
I expand so that I can know you your life is showing grow into a grievance bristle and sell things a sky rises the defense of it is natural the honors are all mine atoms split and materialize and draw the caboose like mules of sad energy I feel the soft green moss on the bank this is my heart it is the swirl of water in the river there is a necessity in all of us I have black tusks the sand is moving its proximity tickles as it blossoms into a cut. The holes are scratching their own emptiness it is a delectation for idle reverie coherence is clasped by ghostly conviction the bowfin is crammed with meat I am but a version of myself a tangle of hair in a crotch passes for beach grass whispers of corollary sound there is a vital usurpation in surf the road disappears beneath the wake of a philosophy as it rolls in sparks through the zone of a russet emotion that once loomed variable as a sanctuary within my heart and now hums inside a mailbox like a fossil of ancient feeling and rouses the expression of an otherworldly force it is Picasso knocking at the door all sternum ribs and rope he wears a stethoscope and a necklace of chili peppers the butterflies are on their usual excursion even in the snow their colors are more vivid than ever.
So what if this is an excursion of ink if the hair thickens then is the room beside itself or is it still just a room I am public as a frequency yet private as a testicle illumined by a knot of semen an alchemy of fingers releases the suspension it is green and black like the conversation of wood crackling with fire a grove of birch greets the blasts of wind with impassive contrasts of white and black it is like the parchment of angels the counsel of roots a mountain colliding with the sky and extruding their wonders in rock and ledge the clouds boil gleefully over the peak I reach for my zipper and purge a hectic embryo shouting feathers and singing to the bark of a tree. I wear a belt of car pistons and tremble with the ghosts of rejection I do a handstand I’m a naked resource I can paint a fire drill with a cube of butter and a wisp of incense. The gardenia weighs a pound and the radio does a sashay in the cabin of a spectacular nipple. It is a clear signal. Heave your mind into the universe and buy a motorcycle. Sprawl about in words. Visit Connecticut. Bring a ladder. Bring syllables. Turn derelict. It will all fall into place. Whatever it is. Slow thunder and sand. It will be drawn to you. You will be drawn to it. The times. The future. The conception of night and day. Life itself. The rhythms of the road. The sea. The sky. The orbit of a hand.




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