Action Inaction

Consciousness is exhausting. And so is rubber. But what is reality? That question gets asked a lot. But does anybody have an answer? A lot of people do. They’re called philosophers. I like to think of reality as a blatant wind thudding through the trees, beating drums and hallucinating. It’s either that or a garage door. Those creaks and springy sounds they make when they open and all those funny odors come flying out.

As you might’ve guessed, I like maneuvering words. It allows me to act like Technicolor. I can glow into longhand or type my way into hills of assumption. But it’s this private pain that is so hard to put into words. I feel like an ocean engorged with squid. I use forceps to handle the pronouns. They’re so slippery. And they smell of abstraction, like the rain. The shoulder was invented to carry the burden of the world. We also have totems, and tattoos and trumpets. These things help.

One day I hope to evoke everything in a single sentence and retire. I will learn to play the Fauve guitar and create sounds of such savage hue that the effect will feel more like a punch to the stomach than a religious belief. A song is a form of bruise and if it wrinkles it will clutter with scientific handshakes and resemble a forest of boiling taxis.

Dragons of concentration ride on streams of consciousness. The lumber is perfectly present, however imperfectly sawn, or expressed in grammar. Verticality has its shadows. But the slobber of abstraction enriches our perspective of cloth.

Pain is often sexual. Which is why it is so often a pleasure. There are adjectives available to describe this phenomenon, and bungalows in which to enact it. The sound of it gets sweet and light drips from the lamps ins scarves of delicate implication. The climate unseals itself in scripture. Silk trails across the neck. Sensations of creative liberation run along a tangent of bone and skin trembling with examples of gold. There is clutter in consciousness and proposition and meaning. This is what makes it so energetic. So impenetrable to gravity. Even the limestone swarms with its science.

Life is erratic and conversational. There is a house in New Orleans where we find this amply demonstrated in a general looseness of direction and antifreeze. Experience tastes like chicken. Experience is what happens when syllables interact with milk. The map collapses into words dripping with Delaware. We can smell tallow. Intentions are hectic with tin. A harridan rages within a leviathan RV. The TV is unpredictable. Each day has its own sounds and odors. And it drives us crazy.

When Mick Jagger asked me to join the Rolling Stones, I didn’t know what to say. I jingle when I walk. And my keys are always a little sticky during the summer. I can juggle a few oranges but I refuse to bark like a dog. Language is hallucinatory. But powerful. If they can use a song writer I can use a wider desk.

The politics of the potato are a little strange, but worthwhile remarking. I can still smell the dirt. Clearly, there is a trace of Paris in the salon, and if this conversation is to continue, let’s let the subtleties stir into action. The drop of a nail can sound like an epitome. And the paragraph has given birth to a turnstile. What do you say we pass through, and let Portugal overwhelm us with its haircuts and cork.

Culture is ontological. A fist of ganglions holds a pound of sugar in each skull, in each maieutic balloon. Dignity is round like a reproductive organ. My skin tells a story of labor and pain. If your  mouth is in prison, you should visit more bars. There are too many referents but not enough signs. The present tense is tart as a martini olive, but the future is in vermilion, anxious and ornery like the twinkle of an incendiary noun.

For the ocean is plunged into its own diversions and when the river becomes a waterfall the hunchback of Notre Dame walks among these words murmuring something about ornaments. I sometimes imagine that the dead are trying to pull us into their realm. Heaven’s parabola slams into fireworks. We need to re-enchant the world. Seethe in awakened syllables. The capacity to gaze at something, anything, is a gift. I like to watch my hand dance on the ceiling. I like to gather its shadows and squeeze them into words. Why is there something instead of nothing? All five senses insist that there is more to a goblet than pewter. The table causes itself by pressing its surface against the hands. When we walk in exhibition of ourselves we are purple. But when consciousness dissolves in sleep, the house of language opens its doors. Everyone is welcome to attend. Just do what the words suggest. Camaraderie is prodigal. The journey begins with a single ghost. This is why I smell like a suitcase. I’m not from here. I’m from elsewhere. For who hasn’t felt the wind in their hair and wondered what time breakfast is served in the afterlife?