Tuesday, March 1, 2016

The Dream of a Hammer

I’m easily seduced by solitude. Give me a troposphere with a folio of implications and I’m happy. I will depart more quickly if the noise of these mechanisms called words aches with geometry and blossoms into diagrams, or leopard moths. Once the allocution happens I can cut to red squirrels and start the turboprop. Meet me at the hotel and I will give you an open-faced sandwich. Max Jacob will be there with his waves and dominoes. The windows are delicious curiosities of glass and exhalation. I savor the trembling of their drool as they respond to the power of fog. The dream of a hammer stirs a fugue of blood to warm my fingers on the rim of a chair. The world leans against the universe chewing a sandwich of Venetian blinds. The drapery is much too personal. But what can you do? There’s no way to drop the pretense of a universe based on curtain rods. I will sit amid the crockery feathering a peck of uvula.
        What happens to butter if you ignore it? Does it remain in a cube or does it assume the shape of a syllable and form an oath of stoves? I will tell you this: this is how the universe strains to become an orthogonal coin in the pocket of a preposition. I will sometimes see a slice of pie do the very same thing aboard a ship of smears. I’m not talking just any smears either. I mean the really greasy ones, with unfulfilled forms and refractory coefficients. I anticipate heat and bruises. Sometimes when I feel aloud and sparkly I tap on an oak tree with my rapier and fish for compliments. The sublime isn’t a mere gesture, it’s a whole voyage. It presses against the sky until it breaks into little pieces of syntax. I often have trouble writing pamphlets for the Society of Berserk Elopements but each time I plead for the betterment of indentation generalities flame from my mouth and scorch the furniture.
Acceptance houses the roar of coherence. Please extend my thanks to the rain. Sometimes a simple banishment will murmur its exultation at a library before falling asleep on somebody’s homework. Perception glitters with trays. Athletes tumble through the arugula. The new supply of masks is a hit. Cubism thrives. My advice is to leave the plant where it is. If the cat jumps over it again we can move it into this sentence I’ve written for it. My vertebrae have begun percolating the great outdoors. I have a tendency to carry nouns to the very edge of meaning and then water them with adjectives.
Please allow me to demonstrate how the snow falls. It falls quietly, steadily, beautifully, like a harmonica or desk. Hills of oak and aspen flow through the wires of a sip of power I call cookie. Which is really just a drink of fish. I’m beside myself with opera. I have a dog named Moose and a moose named Dog. The ring on my finger is the eyeball of a giant squid mounted in a little bucket of shaved ice. My arms are full of congeniality. My legs are glazed with thumps of tiny respect. I feel sexual as a hog on National Public Sleeping Day. We must get together and talk about cement and gravity and other phenomena that crawl or turn into blobs of expectant nipple. Look at me. I’m shaking. I feel the glow of embarkation. And I have nowhere to go. Except where I am. Except where I am.

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