When we bring the outdoors indoors we expand the brain into heartwood. A magician is anyone who forests this figure if I pull an arabesque out of a brocaded pain. Our cardboard argues a secret. What is life? A brass band churning in the Pacific. This lightness is heavy. Grasp the castle gate and guide it. Anonymous as lumber (yet tall as a tendency), I correspond to pine. Your hypothesis has passion in it, worship and trauma and pools of music. The cement fluttered its good government by plume and harmonica. There are fish if you don’t believe me. My morality of sliding on the road argues bubbles. I like concentration. The fish are sparkly our endurance is forlorn. A punch unrivalled by prospect represents five doors, two oysters, and a constitutional monarchy. It works as if by magic, like Schrödinger equations, those crisp little numbers that give rise to wave-particle duality, Howdy Doody, and lapis lazuli. There is no art delivered to humankind that has not the works of nature for their principle object, without which they could not consist, and on which they so depend, as they become actors and players, as it were, of what nature will have set forth. Only the poet, disdaining to be tied to any such subjection, lifted up by the vigor of his or her own invention, does grow in effect another nature, in making things either better than nature brings forth, or quite anew, forms such as never were in nature, as the Heroes, Demigods, Cyclops, Chimeras, Furies, and such like. And that too gets a thumbs up, because the polynomials are linearly independent, and the things that are swimming in a paragraph come to a jagged edge of thunder where reality accords better with certain janitorial discretions. A black holds green in opals. The physiology of a seashore sips the sand. Eighteen blisters and a dead nettle beam the kind of bloom that a moccasin of paint and semiabstraction abhors to put itself into a sweat for anything but mediation. Your afternoon has tricky eyes. Analysis and eyeballs in sly coordinates generate Apollinaire. Build this vista on a preposition or snicker in candy. Seclude Euclid’s eyeball in a summer resort. Here is a button. Rather be a painted incarnation of life and strike a cab that a yellow merits. Hearing must effect a phenomenon of sweetened sound or at least sense it. Cart category to the cartwheels. Barbell interpretation to a pipe wrench. When we bring cotton the thing is skin. Cocoon unfolded on a badly scabbed hand. Algebra rendered olive on the path to Technicolor, a spectrum of art pounding harmony to bones. Here is a bottle of bourbon eloquent as iron. Personification is amusing as a suitcase when the parlor shapes itself into a moody conviction. Toss anything that starts to thrill at a house on fire with garish bulbs. When shadows are pinned to consciousness the trees are libraries. I find tutelage in eggs said the cook arriving at two p.m. on a Friday morning. Plump the procession if they drive the sky to laughter. A handstand circulates scratches. My phantoms are milky but our floats receive heartfelt miscellany. What is a nation? A fist of port. We push the bolt open. It carries an amulet. It opened its hand and said “build a great fortress. Build it of skunk cabbage and gerunds. When it is done the world will go on steaming, scheming, revolving in Ursprache.” This is it. This time I mean it. I am sitting down to read a book by Raoul Vaneigem. I have scratched the excess metal from the parts that have sounded an awakening, a nice piece of obstetrics like “Algiers” by the Afghan Whigs, and watch as the jets gear up for the upcoming season. Holes that are gashed in kitchen walls make you feel thick. Oasis the eye but moose the pulse. It takes gingham to be a chirp. It is pleasant to me that I have written using words. There are lozenges and ponds and places of incision to be made blue for our prayer. A gargoyle is not the same as logic. The question is: are there molecules enough in cartilage to grasp a sheet of plywood? Is there a moral to guide our lives if the beat goes faster than the dots in Blondie? The snake is umber, a radical construction of Hindu honey. Life makes a smell like a novel going bone black into giddy expansion. Fiction is a squeeze to gloss, a biology to predicate on dancing. This is why one’s drawers are stuffed with fishing lures and silk. Those sweet experiences of adolescence begin to blacken into the same gurgle we make later in life when the energy of our gallantry drags itself from our age and hatches the stippled ocher of alligator chalk on the back stoop of a Florida restaurant. It is then that a stepladder comes to burst our daydreams into swordfish, and makes a sound like tinfoil, or books.
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