Words in chains are mechanical and garish. Thistle insinuates hamburger in public and the words go careening through a paradox of rags. Nerves generate the delicacy of a pond and an elegy of cork blasts into clothing. The red gleam of a traffic light gleams on everyone’s hoods. We are all drivers. We are all behind the wheel of a sedan, a chariot of rubber and metal. This makes life a finger. A palette, if you will. The stars help Van Gogh’s canvases into existence. Candles do the rest. Nectar is aboriginal. Yoga mimics the fall of drapery. I would use a stomach for digestion, though a brain is better for the digestion of meaning, which is tough and juicy, and tastes like impulse. The constant barometric pressure of a maraschino cherry. Stars cackling in oblivion. Well, it’s not funny, not really, but who can help laughing? Eternity is a joke, like the behavior of water. The punch line never stops. There is nothing that does not in some way feed on the realm of the eternal. Luster is appointed by county sheriff. Poetry is an engine, an ecstasy of pistons and goo in which wool equals wool and conviction gouges music out of calculus. Yes, calculus, that catalogue of mathematical expression in which popcorn anticipates the architecture of a lip. What is life? Oysters. Embarcation. Biology and wax. The blue of the sky unbosoming itself in bells. The majesty of puddles whose calm reflects the rambling clouds and a moose on the loose. Rattan ejaculates rattan. And a chair is born, with someone sitting in it, I believe it is a man named Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. What’s he doing here? Did someone invite him? Oh well, never mind. Who am I to judge? I just live here, that’s all, hinged to commas like a common lawnmower painted by hand. Yes, I will find meaning in anything, no matter what. Even scabs. When you think about it, scabs are sometimes the beginning of scars, which are the cuneiform of the skin. Let us then build an aluminum Superman whose cape is mirror-like and reflects a heavenly spinal cord. Judgments are the accumulation of many different opinions. If anything is to carry true weight, it must be nailed together carefully, you can’t just shrug it off and expect your identity to start the car. Identity is only an expression of Spanish diplomacy and goes on all summer. And then it becomes geometric and seeks out various adjectives to hang from its nipples like tassels, or padlocks. But look, there’s a vacancy at the motel! Finally, something that we can agree on as we move ever so much closer to the divine. We are but dust in the wind, so the song goes, and there goes John Wayne in Stagecoach, happy at last to be out west and in front of a camera. Must philosophy always be this elusive? When the wind goes through the trees making everything wiggle and murmur it is then that I feel the universe is talking, enchanting us with its own special language, which is one of glamour and geniality. The breath of angels. The sound of crustaceans walking across the sand in a clatter of assertion. The afternoon in its stupor of stone boils with genius, the dividends of nudity, the lips breaking into lagniappe and metaphor. The aromas of Rome the salts of France the dunes of Algeria. This division between life and death which is but an illusion. It ceases to appear that way when the oboe begins its solo, fleshy and reckless as a tongue, and the orchids dance in the whirling air.
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