The weather hurries to validate Euclid. And because it’s autumn, we have all agreed to the counsel of garlic. The Cubism of Picasso, Braque and Léger completed what Cézanne had begun. This helps explain why Picasso, Léger and Braque were able to profit from their sensations and analyze every part of every motif into its smallest negotiable plane, just like the weather. Just like Cézanne. My palette sizzles with birds and chisels. I feel needles of turpentine. I thirst for rivets. These things are difficult to explain. Sensations, in general, are hard to explain. Nerves are words without syllable or sound. The brain is a great auditorium where the litter of dreams echo with the singing of little girls. I would have to crawl under your skin to feel what you feel. But would your sensations continue to be your sensations or would they then become my sensations? Maybe we should just go see a movie.
I like being connected. If anyone is stabbed during a performance the effect is remarkable. I’m referring, of course, to mind and matter. “Life, like a dome of many-colored glass, stains the white radiance of eternity.” We are often unified in disagreement. This should tell you something. This morning my horse abandoned me for a bikini filled with four hundred breasts. I went to the airport to search for its source. All I found was the fourth dimension and a demure gorilla colonizing an asymmetrical mood. I find it intriguing that the shine of an amoeba can reverse the opinion of a little smallpox.
Singing permits the personalization of pain. Doesn’t it? Is that what you wanted to know? I forget. Apart from that, which gives you the greatest pleasure, nipples or bones?
You’re welcome to clean the apartment if you want. I get a little sweaty around clay and must often suppress the urge to crawl and reproduce. Openly exposed genitalia make people uncomfortable. They get the wrong idea. But you have to admit there’s something inherently lyrical about skin, the way it wrinkles, its ingenuous warmth and enveloping anticipation. You don’t often find that kind of sincerity in the brain. That’s an entirely different organ with an entirely different dominion. It may explain why I smell pumpernickel and apples every time I sit down to exalt the history of denim.
The oak tree stands in the autumn afternoon enduring and solid while the clouds go riding by on the sexual air swollen and incandescent in hedonistic rapport with a streetcar named Agog.
Doorknobs, it’s true, are gripping. But there exist, as always, anomalies, and not all doorknobs open doors. Sometimes they exist plainly to fascinate the eyes with saleswomen. You can sense it in Mallarmé. Not all the swans are white. Sometimes they assume the color of forceps, while others are adorned in the colors of the spinal cord.
If you’d like to know more about Cubism, a trail of madder red leads to the Bateau-Lavoir.
When things go wrong, a mockingbird is better than a glove. Butterflies embody the souls of the dead. Everybody knows that. But how many people does it take to pull the wool over the head of a loud parameter? And what exactly is a parameter? Is a parameter a perimeter? Or is it more like an ablative with a backyard patio?
I respect the toss of the mouth. And I like the way the tide pool speaks to the orchestra about the fable of the banished hypotenuse. Charles Ives stood riveted by the use of stucco. We stayed for the cherries although their shadows had already been put in storage. And one of the violins crawled out of itself to find a more satisfying apotheosis in absinthe.
Yes, I do have intestines. They sound like convolutions of golden football.
Nothingness wrinkles in the hills, but that sounds different. That sounds processional, like the stars.
Remember Euclid? He sounds like that too.
Anytime there is a structure around I can smell it. For example, the indicative smells like a calliope. Sex is a burning smell. There are those who say that sex doesn’t have a structure, that it’s all impulse and instinct and messy bedsheets, but this isn’t necessarily the case. One might also consider the bedsprings, the placing of the telephone, and the hang of the curtains. Some like Brahms. Some prefer the Rolling Stones. Brahm’s clarinet quintet in B minor can be effectively performed underwater, but it will not smell like an opportunity, if that’s what you’re hoping for. Opportunities don’t have smells. They just strut around in peacock feathers auditioning for chins.
There’s a reason that air was invented. Without air, what would the weather do? All those hurricanes and typhoons would go to waste. All those troubles, all those dances. All those nouns soaked in faith.
Faith and Hollywood.
The tension inherent in cloth. The stroll of a cat across a keyboard. The masks people wear when the engines sputter and the race is about to begin. Everyone gazing south, where a bank of clouds moves in, hideous and veined with expectation.