There is a response to language that recognizes the dried blood of the vowel. There are consonants with affinities to plastic. Belt buckles, the monumental effulgence of indulgence, galaxies, Cepheids and giant stars in Andromeda, figured chorales and phantasies, bundles of myelinated dendrites and axons and neurons, poetry and heterotrophic bacteria. The Holy Bible. The Koran. The Upanishads. Steel and moccasin and the lethal innocence of a glamorous abyss.
My reflections are ensembles. There is an emphasis on the hand. On hands. Hands on hands. The imprint of a finger which is intimate and inexorable and part of the mess that is mud.
The real meaning of money is sexual and is absorbed by something inside itself that enlarges by a mysterious accuracy of accounting into speculations and derivatives and whispers of virtue that decay in an instant.
I prefer sticks, trowels, knives. I prefer the enigmatic calamity of a poem to the conceptions of real estate which are exclusive and private and exult in Arizona light. The poem is a blast of dynamite. It baffles the blood and rips the world apart. It usurps the tyranny of day. It needs to think. It needs to float like an abstraction beside the mind of an ant.
Here is the mind of an ant tied to a fencepost with rags. There is a cow nearby chewing grass. This is called rumination.
There are curious people and incurious people. The curious people are never satisfied. The incurious people go to sleep with their eyes wide open.
The sun shines over England. It operates by pulley and cord. At one end is a plant exceeding its divisions and at the other end is a bedspring arguing with the lucidity of a stained glass window. Along comes Sir Philip Sydney who says that there is no art delivered to mankind that hath not the works of nature for his principal object.
By works of nature I believe he means frogs and oysters.
Or roses and breasts.
Or the square dance, which is rarely square, but in continuous movement, and fitted to spritely phrases of music.
I propel myself by proposition. There is a pattern, but it is totally hyperbolic, and chintz. In the end is the beginning. Consonants click like insects and walk around in them looking for ornamentaion, configurations pushing and squirming to be born, to crawl out of a paragraph and spring into meaning, to become a belief dwelling in the incandescent tensions of a begonia.
I sense the unseen presence of a nail in a declension of wood. A maelstrom of silver sweetening the bitterness of death. A reminiscence of blue assuming the shape of a teakettle in a Technicolor western starring Sir Philip Sydney and Louisa May Alcott.
A band of Action Painters led by the notorious Jackson Pollock and called the Pollock Gang ride into town and rob the paint store. They are tracked down by Sir Philip Sydney who arrests them and puts them in poetry jail where they stare out of their bars with fierce colors and angry looks. They break out of poetry jail and terrorize Wyoming with wild abstractions and exclamations of orange. Sir Philip Sydney devotes the rest of his life to a stream of consciousness where he fishes for metaphors and fries them up in a cast iron allegory over a blazing fire of delinquent hickory.
I could go to more personal lengths to get my point across but I forgot what the point is. Did I have a point? The point is this: Eyes in the Heart. Shimmering Substance. Be an outlaw. Be a celebration of mass. Life is not about maneuvering gases life is about joy and space and souvenirs of anguish. Life is ecstatic and irritable. Life is a magnificent vulgarity of wire and shells and little blind eyes pushed here and there. Life opens out into a colossal anthology whose works have Gothic aspirations and a grammar that writhes around like a boa constrictor. Each word goes beyond its meaning to culminate in glitter at the end of a sentence where an opinion assumes the physical reality of a sparkler in the hand of a twelve year old girl named Cassiopeia.
And then it becomes doctrinaire like the façade of a cathedral.
A wind-sculpted sand that turns existence into scripture.
This is true of touch and true of the residue of thought which is shiny and red and painted to look like dots. Art’s fondest dream is to push its interior meaning into lumps of morality, which writing does when it starts to tremble, and becomes a dangerous glamour, a flood of color and nebulous seething eddies of elliptical yearning.
Or olives and honey.
Or ecstasy and sails.
The nervous legibility of a windblown puddle by a sidewalk drain. Black fish and white drums. Welding, cutting, assembling. The silk of a lost aesthetic sewn to a morning pinched by rain.