Friday, April 1, 2016


Climbing offers its own form of hunger. Impossible luxuries circulate among us. I found a brochure of simulacrums behind the sun. Today I’ve decided to walk across various structures in imprudent thrusts of silence. I’ve met others at the end of the road with a similar vision. We get dressed in bikinis and necklaces of owl and robin skulls. I found a calliope in a dead salmon. It makes a powerful analgesic. It spits tambourines like an amphetamine and knits kneecaps for our parables. I hover with wonderment over a premonition in the sand. Where did that come from? I can verify its length if I can have a leather vest and an airplane.
Revelations don’t come easy. Sometimes you have to go into the jungle and commit an act of doorjamb. Wrinkled sounds obscure the work of worms. Sweat illustrates the narcissism of propulsion. The rain pours its subtleties on my fingernails. It’s necessary to construct an opposition to epilepsy. The nerve is an effective device for ruminating on the color brown. It will help you obtain a modulation. Touch your pony with a breath of kindness. That will help you to process Japan. Grammar leaves its blisters on a musical disease.
The morality of birch is difficult to maintain. It consists of climbing the mountains and interceding with space. I caress the birds within my feeling. Rags of cloud partially obscure the skull of evening. No one knows for sure what is about to happen. All that we know for sure is spaghetti. Most of the recipes are a patchwork of sauce and noodles. What do you think of cement? I think it demonstrates the solidity of tradition. People walk. It’s how people walk that you’ve got to pay attention to. That, and dangling prepositions. Never dangle a preposition unless you mean to invite an endocrine gland to a funeral home. I’m just simply not up to that sort of thing anymore. I like precision. I like arrowheads and swallow-tailed coats. Sometimes a little ambiguity to season the sauce.
The chimney ascends as cob. I grab another rock and pull myself up, saluting the irregularities as friends, and writing a letter when a zip code flies by. Sometimes I rely on cause and effect, and sometimes buttonbush and microfilm. Either way, the lemon meringue cries out in anguish.
Friction ferments on the surface of a sand flea. Exploration is absorbed by the gut in the River of Runes. We feel what flows through us. By us. Over us. In us.
Contrasting depths spit lava. We talk about drills and stupefactions. A young woman produces a violin and begins to play it. I hear a sonata for violin in A major by George Fredric Handel. The wind falls on the rocks and Cubism bends the river into bubbles. Complications follow, but we stomp on them, laughing until the fire is out. During the night, we play cards. The lantern glows softly. Not enough to obscure the stars. We can see Orion’s belt. I discard two cards and pick two more: the ace of spades and the king of hearts.
I call the rain and it slouches forward getting everything wet. I send it back. It’s not my rain. It belongs to someone else. Then a wind comes followed by as musical ensemble singing classics in the snow. I go inside myself briefly to see what’s going on. Abstractions tumble on a canvas. I look up my sleeve and find a sledgehammer. There’s a cafeteria in my shoe. Sometimes, the best plan of action is no action at all. And so I sit down on my favorite chair and wrestle with my ambitions. There are implications in ink that cannot be reproduced by usury. Age is not a metaphor. It’s an enterprise.
A pair of moccasins carry a woman over the river, swaying like the grease of independence. Her name is Driftwood Sally and she’s married to a clarinetist named Punch. They own a garage in Saint Louis. I know nothing about cars except that they have pistons and gears and move by combustion. This is not the same as carrots, which are an artistic concept. Nature is full of postcards. All you have to do is look around. Mister Turpentine honks at a bronchial soliloquy and sneezes quarks of aromatic gin. The color green was constructed precisely for this species of experience. Alcohol was invented for drunkenness. Drunkenness was invented for redemption. Redemption was invented for survival. Survival was invented for clarinets.
A body of water collapses into the earth and calls itself a lake. A nearby stand of mahogany may be more easily understood as a form of interrelationships than governmental autonomy. The vivacity of potential sleeps among the balloons. An ocean of predicates falls out of a cash register and begins a relationship with a causeway. Things begin to seem a little multilateral, even slippery. If silence is gold then socialism is tin. Bacteria cry out for deeper understanding. There is more to life than squash. There is also concretion and glue. Let’s stick together people.
And yes. It’s true. I like swimming. Swimming is the answer to questions of virtue. There is virtue in swimming. It keeps us afloat and is a form of propulsion.
I like the feeling of sand beneath my feet. I like being surrounded by water. There’s water inside my body. There’s water outside my body. I’m at one with the medium. Water wrinkles. Skin wrinkles. Everywhere there is water there is flowing and waves. Pullulation, salvation, and empty glass bottles. Equilibrium, portholes, and Hawaiian guitars.
How can you lose?
Nobody loses. Everybody wins in the end. And you know what that means: propinquity.  




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