Resort

I smell Plato. Wherever I go I smell Plato. My inner fire blazes with a higher reality. I fold it up and put it in a drawer. I go on my way. My sternum is as severe as a winter sky. I live in a skull of sugar which is placed on my shoulders like a story of labor and pain. Hair comes out of it. A goodly amount of it. Why, I don’t know why. If Great Britain takes umbrage with Amazon, who can blame them? This is why I’ve decided to go through life with a warehouse in my back pocket. Various personal injuries decorate my heart. I expand into eyes. I deposit pretzels in the Bank of Pretzels, as I was advised, by the King of Pretzels. I drift across a piece of paper leaving words behind my pen. The words get up and walk around. Nothing in life is ever truly incongruous. Therefore be glad and culminate in dots. Evade predictions. There is more to a chair than a chair. There are gnarls of wood and grain and shapes that snake through Tuesday bundled in glue and nails. So many subtleties are distinguished in dishwashing. There is a certain glamour in grammar. Red fingernails growing in reckless abandon. I’m held together by buttons and shoes. It helps to point these things out. Utopia wasn’t built in a day. By that I mean popcorn and cymbals. What is the harm in harmony? If I sound like a piano, will the diversities of life go on squeezing my lingerie? Identity is just another antagonism to appease. By this I mean babble, sparkle, and yearn. Really, just like reading. Open a book and there they are: words. Pronouns walking around dressed in adjectives. Does it worry you that silver is Italian? Buy a bathtub. You’ll see. Water is drunk with being water. Is that a door in your head, or just another eyebrow? The dime shines on the sidewalk calling out in miracles of bas-relief. I sense another reality clutching the trees and shaking them around. Some might call that wind. I call it the drool of twilight. When one journey ends another begins. The insects scatter and desire moves into the light awkward and romantic. The railroad is stunning. I long to hang from your lips discussing the monsters of late night TV. And no, I’m not a tuna. I dig the warm earth of Cubism. My intestines are pretty and fold around in the various colors of a sloppy but sensible convolution. The ghost of a dream inhabits my bassoon. It bangs around like a coat hanger because the escalator is thirsty. It prowls around the shopping mall dropping salads of sound and step by step transcends the floor. This is how it’s done, baby. The raw umber of being alive fattens the rodents and stipples the petition of sense in a cloud of nothingness. The result is a refrigerator in G minor, infrared pickles and a gallon of cross-eyed skim milk. I won’t deny the material world, no, but let’s face it: consolidating blisters in a pencil factory is just so much punctuation. It ain’t Chicago, dude. I have, however, changed my mind about chutney. Nobody’s odor should get in the way of sweating. Imagine Joan Baez in a T-shirt. Roll into a bistro whistling a zygodactyl ditty. Order some coffee. Sit down. Lift your cup and smell it. Smell the coffee. This is how things are done in the material world. The firmament lies down in the fog and nurtures a fertile anonymity, a lovely monotony, a kind of purity mixed with cocoa. Infinity dripping with hope. This is what I meant to say all along. I’m sad, not bitter. Just down a quart. All I ever wanted was to get out of this world. And here I sit: wandering around in my head like a ski resort.