If tuna is immediate and scratched, is salt
rational? Honesty heaves itself at my energy and makes me feel bald and useful.
But why tuna? Why salt?
Tuna is specific and salt is stunning. Each time I
construct a moment of sand all the words in the sentence bristle in agreement
with art and produce a sensation not unlike initiation. Words, pushed out of
the mouth and into somebody’s ears, will reassemble themselves in a strain of
thought, straining to become more meaningful, more like butter, or semen.
Mosquitos, meanwhile, give their blood to a napkin.
I collapse from too many scruples and crawl into a convulsion somewhere near
the Rio Tinto Zinc Mine to get rid of them. If that seems subversive, so be it.
The drug that brought me here is orange and opposable as a thumb. Therefore,
send me a dollar and I will swim in your beautiful gaze like a new experience.
We can be caviar together and create metaphors for the stars. God knows they
need them.
Yeah, like a hole in the head.
Please forgive me. My tongue is an animal.
This afternoon I saw a woman pass the library with
the skinniest two legs I’ve ever seen. I don’t know why I mention this, it has
no importance outside of writing, where language occurs, trembling with truths
so intractable they have to be tilted.
This proves my theory about ecstasy. That it goes
through a series of complex maneuvers to attain enlightenment, and shrubbery.
Sometimes the table squirts itself against a bowl, and sometimes it is the bowl
that vomits a table and impersonates Chicago.
A face is more like a moon. It is a noun with
nowhere to go except the fact of its own existence.
A cloud flaps out of a cocoon of words and fills the
air with thought. In fact, it is a thought. Soft and misty and tingly on the
skin. You know? Just like an airport that follows you home and you have to take
care of it and feed it airplanes every day.
Metamorphosis concludes the day by dancing on the
valve of a trumpet. Which changes into a crease. Which changes into a golf
club. Which changes into an abalone. Which changes into a mustache. Which
changes into a squirrel. And eats Cincinnati. All of it, including the Harriet
Beecher Stowe House, and most of William Howard Taft Road.
I’m sorry this happened. Sometimes these poems get
out of control. Nothing remains the same. They have to rub themselves up
against everything, bridges, hotels, cafeterias, distilleries. It all occurs
with or without our complete attention and we are free to shovel coal or saw the
sky in half and watch as heaven and all its angels come tumbling out. Some of
us inhabit bodies for the sole purpose of reproduction and good jobs and cable
TV, and others surrender themselves to the glimmer of alternate realities and
translate the hollowness of existence into an interesting alternative to moss.
As for me, I rely on tactility. It is tactility that
pilots my fingers. Solitude does the rest.
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