Thursday, January 21, 2016

Accessorize Your Eyes

If there is an emphasis on the particular tethered to the whole idea of fish, faith becomes a radar with a blip of radiant spit. Salt is a monster of endurance. Sewing favors concentration, and permits the apparition of form and stupefaction. The immediacy of salt and thread and needle and crack awakens the topography of cement in a sidewalk. At least, that’s the rumor. The great philosophers tell us that there are versions of cement that are more romantic. Honor has little to do with it. To swallow life is also to occasionally gargle. This is what the gargoyles tell us: gargle. The comprehension of space, on the other hand, only requires a sense of space and an amphibious sensuality.
I say these things not because I’m hungry but because the use of eye shadow is intergenerational. The arrival of dust in an igloo is another indication that the color beige is equally herbivorous. I saw it swallow an entire suitcase once and spin like a dress in the rain. We can begin the hymn when the enamel dries. Meanwhile just let the colors burn in a puddle of modest astronomy. I have often wept to see anything as wild and cotton as a bank account. The flesh grumbles to the bones yet approves of the squeeze of transport. There are days that the bus is crowded. That’s just the way it is. The only reason I’ve embarked on this journey at all is to escape the sediment of familiarity.
Cement is respectable, but the metamorphosis of bicycles must not be held for ransom. Conception begins with a ship and ends with a bottle. The sonar is full of life. The tide-pool does a handstand. The mosaic is freely understood to be a parable of pliers. And why not? Even the deodorant has something to say about warts. Why warts exist. Why warts never seem brand new, but ancient and small. It’s a very hard thing to crackle like a cherry at the power of grease. Language is its own rock and roll, gallant as an intestine yet intuitive as asphalt.
I’m in no hurry, obviously. I have a mouth. I can sprinkle the air with names. I can groan. I can prod the word ‘ocher’ until it moves, shows some sign of life, and quivers with comprehension, a deepened understanding of seals. Who hasn’t enjoyed floating in someone’s living room absorbing the details of a kilowatt? Opium engenders cherubs of seminal validation. I think I’m in love with a predicate. There’s a mushroom in the forest drooling money on an illusion of masculinity. I’ll tell you what masculinity is: it’s a reaction to flutes. The world is a calligraphy of cuticles and contacts. It’s touching. It’s fathomless and hazy, and yet I hold a dream in my hand and feel it squiggle, squirm into something legible, like garlic, or stone. 

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