Sunday, December 13, 2015

Dada Budapest

Infinity solicits our ears to assist in the worship of latex. We walk in exhibition of ourselves, comfortable in our structures of sound, living in the full evidence of our fingers, coaxing meaning out of mud and interacting with the sirens as they lure us further into the poem of life. The journey begins with a hot wet kiss and ends with a defiant hoop skirt. The miles in between are long and argumentative but the darkness stirs the blood and the stripes in the center lane are a confection of pigments and synthetic resin. The gravel at the side of the road is more like crockery than fruit, but tastes of science, a multitude of atoms fused into one dominating impression of words and whispers of rain. It is why I must consider the heat of this moment as a flame bundled together to make a cloth. It is obvious that physical science is an abstraction, but to say this and nothing more would be a confession of philosophic failure which I, for one, am not prepared to make. If you think how you fold things you will see what I mean. Abstractions smell of consciousness, especially at these higher elevations, where the wildflowers shout their names. The truck is old but runs like a top. We enter Dada Budapest moistened by paraffin. It isn’t Nebraska. It’s more like navigating a bubbly ear with a beautiful finger. There are feathers in the toolbox, and themes of redemption, which are good for hanging curtains. If I strain to describe my belt I discover a form of geometry crawling over itself in reckless abandon. I’m held together by shoes, like most people, but sound like a piano if someone gets too close to my paddle. Let’s face it, art isn’t always as hospitable as you might think. Have you ever tried buying a bathtub at the Home Depot? How did that enterprise get started, anyway? And when did Dada become so emphatic as to deserve an entire city? This is how I’ve learned to bare myself upon impact. When endurance meets popcorn the result is a stepladder. I’ve been pregnant before, but not with a paragraph. Unfolding it has been surprisingly round, like the dome of a skull reposing on a block of ice. I feel the friction of life during the intuition of screws. This happened in a crustacean, once, and the result was wood. Everything velvet stands erect. I salute the presumption. There is this silk to wear, have you heard of it? It gets hazy when you pull it over your head and then stimulates conversation as it unites with the bed linen. Somebody said that’s a symptom of depression and I opened it and found a horse. I clasped the wind to my breast and crushed a nearby sob with a flick of my gland. Which gland, I’m not saying. Let’s just say it has something to do with propulsion. Who doesn’t like the west coast of Ireland? Is that all you can say? Retire on your own terms. Periodically, I like to sparkle when no one is expecting it, and the hit songs that once made life squirt with stereophonic glee are now all understood as knobs, or Indian paintbrush.


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