The operation was a success. A sentence was removed from the mouth of a sarcasm and given new life as a mouthwash. I’ve experienced crowds before, but nothing like this. I’ve never seen so many Dagwoods and Infantas. Plaintiffs in red skirts. Defendants in wet suits. The noise of a misunderstanding burns the agreement down to the ground. The sky cries like a flash of bronze.
Raise the curtains if the chair disappears. I don’t want anyone to see the catharsis dancing on the television. A glass firmament turns into an orange and sinks into the ground like an airport. It’s difficult not to think of all the times that someone got a parking spot just a second or two ahead of me. I get up and go get the Sunday paper. I feel a heavy seacoast glide over me, filling my brain with sour mash and gamy combustion.
Talk throbs. A rumor of limbo explodes into elevators. This is a good thing. It motivates the kettledrum to grow in iron content. I wonder if there are any women named Elizabeth who might be disposed to ride in these elevators. The first thing you need to know about elevators is that they go up and down. Don’t waste your mind on principles. Learn how to press buttons. There’s a cloud that brings power to the local stethoscope and makes it cold and accurate. A thought materializes into an emulsion of text and anoints the paper with a herd of antelopes.
Devotion is easy. It’s not so easy, however, to be reticular or engraved. The sky walks into me and mixes with my blood. It’s time to leap into action. I tremble like a cheap hotel. I rub all the implications with the sleeve of my cardigan. I feel doors open in me, and transfiguration and proprioception.
I feel devotion.
Maybe I was wrong. It’s easy to be devoted. It’s not easy to stay devoted.
Sometimes I will smile for no reason at all and this disturbs people.
Even if it snows, I will try to be outspoken. After a long walk, I feel the sweetness of resignation. The treasure of capitulation. I surrender to the moment and renew my subscription to life. I feel the drift of clay and cannot escape the charm of the dryer. The warmth of the clothes, the speech of the drum. I wait for what remains of the cornhuskers hand lotion to descend to the top of the bottle, which I have turned upside down. I like to feel words prowl through a sentence looking for detachment and distillation. I’m not entirely sure what moves them. Is it imagination, or the propellers of a titanic lyricism? One that both sings and ejaculates.
I think it’s the breath of a fan palm sporting umlauts.
Our perspective is sometimes obscured by too much implication. I get a lift out of elevators and quietly endorse the sprint of structure. Is that too much implication, or just enough implication to get something started? Something like redwoods, or a sanctum sanctorum that is simultaneously everywhere and nowhere. Something like spring. Something like prose. Something like a bend sinister percolating dry goods.