Sleeves of Grass

I shiver to every breeze and to floating charcoal. Nobody’s smell the elbow slams is grease. I’m elbows. The water fusses over bohemia on the door. The apple tree blooms over rattles, a world like snow. I lament the loss of introspection beneath a monument to industry. We age in participles like a dream of shells, the wonder of it green, so green that to elevate windows is a help to consider fog and angels. I have a drawing of a coin inscribed with the formula for Vicodin. Write your name below and I will send you a description of fog. It will be garnished with radar and taste like a chair. I’m extending my crowd to a stove. This means I’m feeling sanguine and my words are filled with heat. There are trousers in the closet and the morning has been folded by hospital hermits. The shadows of Paris produce electricity. There are coordinates beside the pepper. It doesn’t help to argue with a worry. The worry will win. Just walk away. And take your worry with you. I’m going on a tour of Alabama. I experience science as a serendipitous snake inside the parenthesis of a dead sentence. The sentence died because nobody read it. It came alive when it was pumped with the details of a grasshopper and resurrected in reading. Somebody read it. It must've been read. I can hear it groan under the weight of its own existence as it strains to make itself understood. It moves now, word by word, remembering and thinking. It plunges into its own diversions. This is how we know that the savor of mayonnaise incarnates the tangle of the mind. This is how we know that there even is a tangle of the mind. This is how the silk of listening necessitates thought. This is how consideration becomes a waterfall and dreaming walks among these words in a gown of opacity. Philosophy joins me in swallowing reality. Each time that I shave or iron a shirt I discover a sack of helium in my head falling like snow on a river. The river is a gift of variation illumined by forty-two light bulbs in a whipped cream cartoon. It keeps the lips moving. I fold what I need to fold and put the rest in storage. I find consciousness has the power to bubble when there's enough cement around to build a geometry of wheels and traffic cones. Life is often sticky with play. Suppose gold. Dollop monstrosity. There’s a hint of introversion in all of us. This may be of some use on a picnic. Physiology occurs when eating is happening. Tuna is nothing like cactus. But I do like swimming. There is the phenomenon of pulling a paper sun to translate grass. The grass is interwoven with air. It makes sense to forge a relationship with the things of earth. I’m gambling on the planet to dote on its own circumlocution. There are some pains that can be a little amusing at times, especially when the currents move toward chiaroscuro in the evening.