Sunday, December 15, 2013

We're Going Up Now

Seagulls on the horizon in reveries of flight the water is calm broken clam shells litter the beach. There is a rowboat resting in the sand and a swimmer emerges from the water carrying a starfish. It’s a woman who is nude save for the tattoo of a breeching whale on her lower back. An echo stains the communication between a color and a reflection. The foundry is closed. The words to describe it are rough and archaic. The ocean makes a sound like religion. Like the monks of Mont Saint-Michel. Like the sound of blood in the heart of a mosquito. Like the weight of a perplexity in the whisper of a nun. Like a crown of thorns. Like pins in a map. Like Galileo’s telescope. Like the knife of beauty when it stabs a nerve.
The bells of a sleigh ring in a cemetery buried in snow. Actors rehearse Hamlet in a high school gymnasium. Membranes exchange fluid. Miracles of lace sprawl against the sky. Mannequins in a display window gaze into the void with painted eyes and fashionable clothes. Everything is flux and color and ice. Genitals warm. Champagne sparkles. The air invigorates. The succulence of flesh causes gerunds to shine like sapphires. The bog is silent. Nevertheless the contraries of muslin and soap solicit the bonhomie of philosophers and chubby engravers. The world turns on a muscle. Wrinkles introvert in chiaroscuro. The light in the hotel lounge slithers toward abstraction. A man takes an oath. The linen is delivered on carts. People grab bagels and glue.
Suppose below a mirror the propane within drifts through a paradigm of progress. Tattoo what sunlight you can to your inner excelsior. There is a pamphlet about the galaxy. Its revelations are honored with thatch and adobe. Float an ocher. Demand an appearance at Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge. Fondle a lyric. Rub this guitar to gravy. There is plaster if you regret the armchair. By lip I mean wildcat. Do that. Sometimes the veins will exaggerate the effect. Run in and slide around on it. The desk is thrilling. But the floor is an answer to baptism. It would cure an octagon of urine. Soak the nutmeg in images like cardboard. The box is a journey of corners. Think of a subtlety and then turn it into a lake. The haiku will flex a pineapple to hoses. And then the whole ensemble comes together to form a peacock.
The ribbon of deviation affirms the gentle camber of the highway. The almanac grumbles its predictions like a puddle emits rags of impatience. The sun bathes in a paragraph. Rumors of grace awaken the hills. There are days when I feel like I could fly and days when I emit the radar of reverie while tassels of suicide wink at the teleology of postage stamps.
Last night there was a thin layer of frost on the windshield which immediately disappeared as soon as the heater got going and Cat Power sang “Stuck Inside of Mobile With The Memphis Blues Again.” We went to Fed Ex for more ink cartridges in order to print more images of myself imitating the disk thrower in the Louvre and put it in Christmas cards. Life is often a bouquet of events that arrive in pieces, like a mushroom or village. For example, the sentence which is dipped in thought and holds together by sunflowers and rain. All I need is a little wire, a grasshopper and a volcano and I can demonstrate the fragility of butter. Anyone can fold infinity into a ruby if they have enough time and fingers. The eyes of the hummingbird are sharpened by storm. But the nails of the cabin are the same as the nails of the attic.
There is a ghost on the ceiling holding an alpaca. Behind him is a procession of palpable odors, including smoke, vanity, and justice. The squirts are pungent. We adhere to the blobs that we believe in not the sputters of vowel in a fathom of turmoil. Those are for telephones. I wince at the sneer of perspective. The oars swing out and the boat moves forward. We behave like this after the play spreads its meanings on stage and the chatter of the actors dilate into private soliloquy. I love it when that happens. I employ my vertebrae for an erection that will last. If you turn the page, you will see a picture of my medication. It awakened this chronicle I built. It is huge and pink and brings a dark presence of cows into the light of an elevator paneled in black walnut and East Indian rosewood. We’re going up now. Hold on. Chew an airport if your ears pop. This voice I’m using hasn’t been invented yet. It’s still on paper. Think of it as a float. Poetry is a contraption for dancing under your skin. I’ve heard it’s quite charming. I believe I’ve heard indications of this in the so-called grapevine. Unfetter your sand and listen to the surf. There. Now pummel our leg with a universe.
I am amid bumps now, things called words, excresences imagined as knots of light and Palomino clay. They have a wonderful pull. There is a great cherry to put in the mouth and suck. It’s sublime to argue with the air. But if you pull this chain and feel a tension at the other end, prepare for rain. Hold on to your hat and ride like the wind.

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