Mosaic

A description of rocks redeems the afternoon of the throat. The museum of folly hides among its relics. There’s a shadow groaning at the end of this sentence. Can you see it? It’s pulling a hurricane out of a strawberry.

We must learn how to remedy the blunders of agriculture. Let’s become nomads. Let’s sew bikinis for hydrogen bombs. Let’s imitate sparrows in the luster of pure momentum.

The fruit of the hydrogen bomb is bitter and inedible. I prefer watermelon and the whispery honeycombs of angels.

I’m plunged in magenta. I fly through frankincense. My gut tells me that peacocks are representations of angularity. The brain of a bowling ball is discovered sipping the fluorescence of nouns. I encourage the punching bag to burst into description and go light a candle. Everything else which I find critical to understanding the kineticism of Picasso is boiled into candy. Voila! There’s another reflection that we can hold in our stupor and slowly unravel.

My drum is an assurance which I interpret as a spring of blood pressure. As for atomistic materialism, we open the door to the pyramids and drift through a garden of jonquils and rice.

I think of the dust of Mars. Its reddish tints and quivering paragraphs.

Is time an object? Or is it a phenomenon inseparable from human consciousness?

One thing is certain: time is not a river. It’s natural to think this. But it’s not. Time doesn’t flow in one direction. Time meanders. Time is a mosaic of simultaneous events, past, present, and future. It makes me want to languish and roll in a luxurious escape from the hammers of ambition.

Time gives witness to the circulation of blood.

Time is the aorta of beginning and ending, which are apes, and quarrel over touchdowns.

I’ve never really been that fond of punctuation, but it has its places, its comas and colons, its ellipses and periods. Punctuation simmers in a semicolon; then bursts into flame.

This is that flame. It’s written in pronouns, and the architecture is a tribute to maidenhair.

Blood doesn’t like punctuation. Blood is fluent in eight languages, including stunned, invisible, rattle, concerned, photogenic, burning and envy.

Blood just wants the alimony paid and the allegories to be written in Sanskrit.

The grouse are in a taxi and I’m having a conversation with a davenport.

I wander the world in sparks and vapor absorbing everything I can. The invocation agrees with its feathers. The morning opens to its opinions and oceans. Singing is better than money, but all we have is paste, and the occasional filibuster. Is that a door in your head, or just another seashore? I want to better understand the incandescence of worry. Does it turn brown with age? Is it ever resolved? Is stoicism truly an eyebrow or more like a spice at the drop of a heart? I feel better already. I can skulk now, and provide a chair for my pain. You never know what salvation is going to look like until the morning shines on Scotland and swirls of wisdom turn chiaroscuro.