Soup du Jour

Eyes eat words. We know this. You might compare rain to music, but there it is. Élan vital. I don’t manage problems. I avoid them. The subjunctive is too frail for winter. Ask Gertrude Stein. Ask experience. If there’s a flying saucer in my soup, I don’t complain. I climb aboard. Words are for the doors of the mind, it’s true, but I sweat a lot when I run. I need a whirlwind of words. I like to talk in fables. If blood is a form of ink I will need a shovel. The candor of the climate is very like a whale. Tugs share qualities of endurance. Hair is an enigma. I don’t know what to say about grease. There are butterflies on the seashore this morning. Sobs of envy assassinate a shark. The sky dribbles its shadows. We get lost in a library of reckless obscurity and find an angel of the morning dreaming of eyes. There’s blood on my sleeve. My hydrometer is broken. I’m all elbows. There is a feeling in me that wants to squeeze things. I think the railroad blooms on its rails so that a world is sublime if it provides transport. If I gaze at something in idleness I see it as a gift. I saw a man repair a ceiling fan in a garage and wondered how one might define pain. Variations of it seethe in obscenity when we’re alone. A soft, somewhat mournful timbre repeating phrases in the lower octave echoes the weary fulminations of the car wash. A piece of grappled cardboard arrives in perception. We must use stilts to adapt to the turnstiles. Go, solicit a discarded color. Autumn is to a cup of infinity what infinity is to paste. The thermometer eats a blister. I play with balls and yell at their physiology. This is how I became a lawyer. I found a personality at a newsstand. Eczema was not made for abhorrence so much as assembly. I’m afraid of asking what a noun is and then it comes to me just as the parade begins and I smile. Here I am forming a conclusion, then losing it again. I get my keys out and start the car. This refrigerated space would cheer any blob of emotion into further definition. I see it as infantry and illusionism and add inches to the climate of shameless combing which has no puffing if there are pumpkins available for allegory. If the speedometer flies out of time and extends it to you as a saucer then talking about it requires tea. I feel a long warm swim arrive. Concentration is the dirt in which I submit a demand for shape and get a watermelon. Ever since I began this regime of medicine the world has been a bashful texture. Hallucination?  Yes, that too. I pull a bombarded eye toward whatever attracts a deepened etymology. It is as if a ghost clanked by like a Cubist, dropping monsoons and straw. The intrigue of touch holds an empire. That metal expanding into space is my ransom. I pullulate as if I were dripping words. A raw sienna topples onto the jungle. I pull a light from the darkness and feel its warmth in my hand. Tickling is configurational. If laughter is a fence it’s equally heavy that a separation widens the punch. New studies of pepper season the philosophy of salt. The chains ascend easily and go beserk. The ocean begins swelling when the words are dry. I sometimes use English to describe a lobster for the tourists. It’s a living. I’m going to drink five coffees and dangle from a sentence like an odyssey of syntax.  A great many intentions are a color that I flex into mind. The hachure is fine. But nothing beats anguish. Blood trickles from a mail box and lights up Spain, causing beauty and Joan Baez.