Day of the Prune

I like to gather delicate things. Anything. So long as it’s delicate, symbolic, and glass. Perception is a process so strangely is there something behaving until it becomes a bakery. I walked through postulation lifted and here I am. I’m the weather. Snow falls on my hand and the afternoon threads a shiny pain until it knocks on the door. What do you do when reality is injured? Distance does currents and dots drip on a map of my heart. Movement is the fertility of experience creeping slowly across the ooze of learning. People are irritating. I think of kelp. It helps. Appeal appeals and is appealing. That, too, and the bakery causes itself by rubber. Writing is always a warrior yelling in battle. Cement is worship. If we reflect on glowing we are a people of ink. I suckle a headlight in the greenhouse and cage a little alligator in my prophecy. I feel most palpable when a cloth enhances hope, which is to say coffee squeezing a moon with my subtleties contoured to look like syntax. And we all know what a push up is. Scatter these words in your mind and wave to me from a farm. I will coagulate. I am stretched into you like a long abalone on a lone night in Tuscaloosa. I am a color walking in bones. I will sell you an odor for one dollar but you must choose the scent. I will start this sexual incense notwithstanding. I am not with standing I am pulling a dream out of the taste of hail. I come to compose this despite the power to chirp, which is easier, but less effective. If I fill a suitcase with enough injuries I can get dressed in a hothouse Picasso and feel its rags sag into air. And so my statements are not the same as strolling, I know this, it’s riveted to a big construction, gnarled as an oak and wet as veins. So this makes it that a ship is rope and not as disturbing as lightning shooting from the mouth of the dishwasher. His name is Walt and he likes science, Arizona, and towels. I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again. Consciousness is exhausting. It’s really so much easier to bless one’s shoes with quietude and go swimming anyway. I think of music and don’t really mean a house. I’m just energy, you know? I do like immediacy and ghosts and antiques. I like willow and exploration. Writing is better when it’s catching a taxi then when it’s remembering miniskirts. But that’s just a useless generality. Don’t listen to me. I smell like an ice cube. I float in my head like a world and hope someday to whistle. But really, when you think about it, frogs are as stunning as dumbbells, and I’m an eel like anyone else, a phoneme languishing in prunes.