Thursday, January 15, 2015

The Tongue is a Strange Machine

Enigmatic Corot that a chicken thickens if a cut thrills. I strain a spoon to hit the moon. The singing sidewalk is my blossoming and bile. I smell incense below the float and start the car. I will push this idea until it crackles below the bean bang.
The performance glows and we feel its heavy steam. We assembled the stomach during the fall and luxuriated in winter feeling it work itself into rhetoric. I bald into honesty like paint. The dusty soliciting of spring became my cause and controversy. I stood there in the orchard including sense in my art and absorption.
We can maneuver the fence if the court so deems it necessary for our escape into the wilderness. Jerk a swim through the pool. If you lose yourself during the elevation you will find resurrection in the consonants strewn throughout the sentence. The proposal attends your punches. One must endure one’s secretions as they become implicit in perception.
Mark this, my friend, the bowl will quicken as it fills with ice. Scribbles toss themselves into circulation. I feel the pulse of an indentation brush a babble with an admonition. Plump my draw to a collar stud. I can only answer the wonder of myriad structures since I branch into many coconuts and burn the deformation with laughing up there.
We play the trapeze and tap the wall with autonomy. We pull our excuses out of a perception of ratio and make proverbs out of silk. Our assembled logic accommodates gravity, crustaceans it to vermilion, and we go ahead and pull the rest, fastening our spoons as we go. There is cement for exploration and glass for decipherment. We clothe our echoes beneath knowledge and see what green Apollinaire wore when he flowed toward the mysteries of secretion.
It’s in the streams that our reflections pin themselves to the water disturbing the graces of the heart. We linger to collect ourselves and travel into the beyond weeping over the compliments of apples. Conceit is a form of coherence. It is the mind we hope to press against when we write something. The tea is cluttered with subtleties, too many to describe as sidewalks or cloth, which have their own distinctions, and inflate with the nutmeg of desire.
We fill our anthologies with aesthetic persuasions that never quite gel into paradise. Confusion explains the larynx. We flail what we can with our theories and tumble vowels on our lips. I can’t quit altitude. There is the spring to the blade of my knife and age is a palette whose colors can never adjust to the brass of trouble. Cream by violin, and use binoculars for the rest.
My feelings fight for the rub of the wave. I can do nothing without teeming. I feed my insistence the clang of the sleeve and wash the greenery with meditation. The tongue is a strange machine, though some might call it a muscle. I call it a convocation of cells and let it shape the song as it will.

1 comment:

Delia Psyche said...

Fun piece. Love bald and crustacean as verbs. & the photo of you as a gunslinger is great.