The cloud is equally mist and motion and shape.
The carving skidoodles and this becomes a sentence giving a hypothesis life as
a suggestion, that is to say coffee, which is a beverage, which is a tongue of
the moment, which is a metaphor, which is a path on the skin. Harmony and
eating are also bubbly. There’s no easy definition for night. Gambling does not
lead to redemption, no, but it will lead to flames of retaliation. The
paragraph rolls by on rails. Symptoms include glue, desire, correlation, and
trout. There is more light in a wrinkle than you can imagine if you look
closely in a mirror you will find a face of water exhibiting an impersonal glow.
I will dote more on glue. I will grant that I have an interior walking among my
drugs. It’s by soaring through red the mimes will come to understand us. But if
we heave ourselves into abstraction the many lives carved out of the mountain
have the flavor of syntax combined with the color of ice cubes, which is a kind
of non-color, or ghostly vibration of milk. I don’t sneer at wrestling, I was
once a wrestler myself, but I do not think that nailing a noun to a description
of henna will result in anything like a philosophy. Anything written down is
mentally viable, can be pictured, can be imagined, can be extruded from the
mouth at a social gathering and writhe in the air like a deep prodigal thumb or
ugly towel. I’m eager to enrich this thought with an insinuation involving
bedsprings and rocks. Eyebrows forest the forehead for a reason. Don’t take
sideburns lightly. Elvis didn’t, and look what happened to him. High collars,
rhinestones, and Vegas. The mind is a funny form of energy, a rodent running a
treadwheel, the chatter of rodeo clowns at a winter ski resort. People don’t
normally associate revelation with the streets of Chicago, a violent place to
be sure, but also a simulacrum, a parallel to hair. The sparks are a gift from
John Lennon. It’s time now to search for a little grace at the airport. Nothing
melts faster than ice on the wing of a plane readying for takeoff. Music
solicits my ears in a dream and penumbra surrounding my buttons acts all
Technicolor and hands, like the sympathy of swimming when there is granulation
and taxis. That makes trumpets come into mint and jingle in truancy. I can’t
say enough about eggnog. I must go now and make some wings to extol
the etiquette of opinion.
John Olson is the author of Backscatter: New And Selected Poems, from Black Widow Press, Souls Of Wind, a novel about the notorious French poet Arthur Rimbaud in the American West, from Quale Press, and The Nothing That Is, an autobiographical novel from Ravenna Press. Larynx Galaxy, a collection of essays and prose poetry, appeared in June, 2012, from Black Widow Press. The Seeing Machine , a novel about French painter Georges Braque, appeared from Quale Press in fall 2012.