Wednesday, March 8, 2017

Metallic Green Fruits

Marble hummingbirds calm the radio. I use this warp in the space/time continuum to dig through my obstinacy looking for the recent purchase of something that I can redirect towards liberation. I find a golf ball, a miniature Frisbee, and a thyroid gland. I liberate them. They become radio furniture.
I dare to believe that ink is capable of becoming diamonds. It's mostly just pretense, but that’s ok. Rattlesnakes mostly hunt at night. Roast a chicken and what do you get? A roasted chicken.
But this isn't about roasted chickens. This is about fjords. Why do fjords tend to be forged in Norway? Are there fjords in Texas? What kind of clothes should one wear when visiting a fjord?
The answer to these questions can be found in rhubarb. The world is colder than it used to be. But rhubarb persists. They are like oysters chiseled in wood. It’s never the appliance that needs to justify its existence but the watercolor that echoes the limits of our understanding that gives us the music-hall of the mollusk.
The rhubarb is a gimmick. It was never intended to liberate Moscow. It was all those sails that let the sky in on our plans and the winds that knocked some virtue into them that gave our crew something to do at last. Why didn’t we think of that before? Sometimes the best answers come in the form of soap.
I like to sit in a chair and loaf. It makes me sad to think of veins. There’s the sky above the cemetery and the sky as it exists in words, but which is the real sky? Remember bees? That’s the real sky.
Whatever is round shows that geometry is present. Geometry is what happens when the zeppelins arrive with a supply of linen. The Theatre of Sensations opens its doors. The rainforests are deep and intermittently illumined. Snakes curl around branches of rubber trees and walking palm and multi-colored birds embroider the air with a deafening pandemonium.
This is what music looks like when it’s assembling itself with catgut and camaraderie. A man carries words from one end of a sentence to another. Screams of murder complement the varnish of the sideboard. But these are not the words the man is carrying. These are the words that are carrying the man to a newly expanded rapport with all things hickory.
This is the way the mind chews things. Think of a shell then think of the meat in the shell. I see a blatant flexibility in the fire of sexuality that I would like to see in the need to say things about our life on this planet. This is precisely the kind of convolution that leads to genuflection. When we see the oasis ignite in the distance we will know that the planets are the darlings of a trigonometry invented on the backs of camels.
It never ends, does it? I mean life. We each personally conduct a life leaving behind books and art and children, but life itself is a hunger and a thirst that will never be fully understood. Even the end of life is the beginning of something new. These are the words that I was born to carry and lay them down here, one by one, so that they would rise and fulfill themselves in the metallic green fruits of another world.

No comments: