I gossip. I push and embody. I look for redemption wherever I can find it.
I get up in the morning and drink coffee and listen to news from France and scribble my way into sweet oblivion.
Beauty is elusive but I’m bent on finding it and wrestling it into words. Is that what made Mark Twain shave his head in Florence, Italy?
I do not know. That is between Mark Twain and Mark Twain’s hair.
I scrounge for food and shelter. I am, improbably, a collar stud. I hate anything vague. A word slaps my lip and indicates tinfoil.
I argue with zippers and hoist meaning from rope.
I wheel and stir and tremble and endure. I convulse and turn and despair and measure.
I display feelings of experience and bump. I plant big ideas. I thunder pugnacity and bite the air. I convulse and grab and purify and slap the buttocks of my mule.
I sell books. I crack jokes. I trudge the winter streets of the soggy northwest and sigh.
I speed down the freeway. I nail abandon to the air.
I mutate. I plant adjectives in perfectly good forsythias.
I do the wash. I explode into light. I embezzle. I embarrass. I emboss.
I walk in circles dripping redwood and moss.
I like a lot of things but I don’t like routine. I’m athletic. The hives explain nothing.
A wizard once told me that the winter is sublime and this made me sparkle. Please. Sit down. Have a pancake. Watch your head. Think of this as a PhD in leisure.
I’m excited. Aren’t you? I feel enriched by this excursion.
When I get home I’ll send you a loaf of pumpernickel. The highway is long but the pleasures and pains are pearls. Nevertheless, I must often strain to make my emotions pull hedonistic predicates into glandular tissues. Later, they will grow into kisses and lost horizons.
Infinity must be sampled intelligently, as if it were a contest in Florida involving math problems and breasts. It hurts less than bikini waxing, but the orgasms are worth it.