I’ve galvanized the tonic in order to indicate the flow of kelp. The waves come in. The waves go out. Magic eludes its own tinsel. As my dives go deeper, the stones at the bottom become brighter. These hectic strains I’ve thrown at the canvas will make better sense once the mud begins to shine. The wind turns and skitters away. The hem of a gull argues with the stern of the boat. I find a whisper of reminiscence crying in the shadows. I smell destiny in the rattle of the east.
There’s a trigger that I can pull, but that would lead to some nasty repercussions. The corollaries are violent enough. My fatigue is palpable. The words are vertical. I withdraw into coral and twinkle. The book embodies stratification. The geology is alive. My drum resembles a winter dance. I feel that there is a certain focus to be painted into neglect. Thought is kerosene. If I can swim into your eyes I can explain everything. A puddle is nothing like a hat but it will brake for children. No depth attains the surface without getting a little messy.
Language is an event, not a potato chip. If the ovation is thin it may also be extruded by a swarm of carbohydrates. For example, I go get the laundry out of the dryer. I pull it all out and feel its warmth and communion. It’s mostly underwear, T-shirts, and socks. I find a little pointy plastic object. It’s white and looks like a tiny rocket ship. I wonder what the hell it is. What does this thing have to do with clothes? Is it a pin, some sort of fastener? Should I toss it? We share the washer and dryer with three other units. What if it’s important and someone comes asking for it? Should I put it somewhere where someone can see it and reclaim it? Where would that be? On top of the dryer? One of the shelves behind the sink? It’s so small. I can’t decide if this little doohickey is important or not. I can’t decide if it’s important or not because I don’t know what it is. I bring it in with the clothes. My mind spins. What the fuck is this thing? I fold the clothes. Then I realize what it is: it’s a golf tee. There are two golfers in the building. I toss it.
And so you see, this is how the world comes to be discovered. We find shapes, we define them by their function, and give them a name. Things without a function are harder to define. Some things aren’t even things. They’re ideas. Perceptions. Intuitions. Clues.
How do you describe vision to the blind?
How do you describe a ball in the realm of the square?
How do you know when something is music or just plain noise?
Music unbuttons the air. I can smell the invocations of Gilgamesh.
Death hunts for wrinkles. We feed it bones and revolutions. I try to unite examples of clothes and instinct. It amuses the sparrows to see versions of water blown by the wind. It’s a big world with a lot of bananas and arguments on it. The blue tears of my sorrows are tilted to show the rotation of the planet. Sometimes my personality explodes out of my body. People get hurt. I try to make amends and decorate the future with French doors. The animals frolic. We sit and sew our clothes together.
I sense the grandeur of salt, whose events are peripheral to the elevation of taste. The recruitment of cantatas endures. The cylinders of the palace pump up and down. I flow beside the noise. Thousands of jellyfish wash ashore. The straw is sufficient unto itself. My faith burgeons before I can decide to linger in the wilderness or not. Faith in what I cannot say. All that I know is that if I gaze behind the curtains I may be able to identify what it is that keeps walking around in my blood looking for resolution.