I feel a certain sorcery in the blood. I wrinkle and repair myself by pain. Gravity thickens in the House of Recognition. Words trickle into willow creating obstetrics and imagination. Imagination gives birth to the Alligators of Prophecy, all of them focused on salt. This is what the fiddlesticks demand. I must act monstrously, like a conquest that begins on Wednesday and by Friday has begun to percolate the Louvre. I’m full of the heavy water of accommodation. I proliferate in flowers. I feel the wiggly ambush of a wooden brain. Sirens interacting with the fingers of summer. Pronouns standing erect in the smell of language, like bags of semantic cement piled on a loading dock in Milwaukee. Facial nerves, ink, and nothingness.These are the sounds that are fossilized in abstraction. And these are the sounds that jerk around and snap into emotion. Big emotions, like the ones that churn with gas stations, pumping the serious fluids of life and thrilling through our hands in obscurities of future combustion. I am a fold of night. I am filled with unleaded consciousness and the burn of rain on the dissonance of time. My equipment is feathers and ears. I glitter to play the guitar and crawl into morality to obtain a mind of swallows. Shaving is a conceit that has turned spectral, like Fred Astaire. I feel names tapping on my feet. Pronouns thrashing around in science. The many subtleties of dishwashing parade in chronological utopias of soap and odor. I am altogether impressed by shoes. I spent the legendary summer of 1967 whispering all the words in the dictionary. Grammar is a muscle. I didn’t really to mean to buy a house just now but the grammar of mutation made me do it. I signed all the papers and spent my birthday among the filigreed. I celebrate my birthday every day. I string words together like beads and crawl out of a vagina in Paris smelling sudden and sophisticated like a pair of experiences that culminate in glue and cause the world to stick together. You might want to try sliding around sometime on something ocher, or emotional, like paper. Paper offers us miracles of hockey and shines in the eyes opening the mind as it plays among mirrors. Is that a door in your head? Or just a stepladder fattened on Plato? Here I am pulling myself along like a fire escape. I knew something like this would happen. As long as you carry the smell of life around there will be socks for the elves and infinity burning in the mystery of incentive. I’m sorry for being so personal, but desire is awkward, and unpredictable. This is why we find elephants in our dreams, and shiver to absorb the stars.
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