Wednesday, May 17, 2017

And This?

The autumn wasp acts as an airborne filigree, a mechanical pedestrian dressed in seaweed. What this tells us about cheese is sticky. Gold holds the soft roots of tonality, the élan that draws species into cabbage and bulldogs.
And this?
This is an aggression, a rubric of plumbing that comes to give us musk and music. Who knows this will place it where it belongs. I'm going to guess Colorado. The unknown sugar of life approves an arena of eggs and so opens the eye of the mountain. It makes sense. The humidity has muscle. It will lower the sky into our hearts where enough fog still lingers to climb into our pennies and exert a little sturgeon on our nerves.
Denver, meanwhile, sparkles at the base of the Rockies and chews the sun like a bas-relief on the side of a leavened dialogue.
With China.
Create an honest mimosa, my friend, and yesterday will sting on Wednesday. For this, it is necessary to overflow reality and steal the grimace of dark matter. The stars wear rubies. But music creates a space for scorpions and books.
Polar man kisses his girlfriend in the Hall of Coleslaw. The kiss is full of blood, as one might expect, considering the nature of grout and the difficulties of dark energy in an itchy sweater. We whistle at the Door of Light and put things in perspective when the hills shout their trees out of the ground. Structure is a rocking motion aroused by words. We pull ourselves into writing. We use binoculars. We use language and diesel. We tell timeless stories of regret and ejaculation. We foster the enigma of creation by waving fragments of gravity at a yo-yo. We deposit words in a greasy paragraph and participate in holes. Winning an organ is a cuddly banana if you can find suitable employment for it in a bubble bath. We have ears for the canary kit, but no nose for the analysis of exclusion. If you would like a sample of assimilation, intimate the unction of a buzzard in a tiny white felony. Please include your phone number, fallibilities, and a crystalline substance. You can find yourself in the auction over there by the barn. Look for the red wheelbarrow. The structure of cosmic voids is embedded in the silences of dirt. Ask for Worm.
Tired of shaving? Would you like a catastrophe to go with your coffee?
Here. Have a sheaf of sauerkraut for a wilder life of Friday enticements and a raw unsettling sandwich of Bavarian airplanes. The beverage of Polynesian bricks has arrived and it’s already sparkling. We’ve put some thoughts on paper, potato catapults, broomstick bubbles, a dictionary of shivering sapphires and a junkyard goose, a sad wad of deduction, broken gods of cause and effect, close shaves with Toupee the Tornado and three hundred cathedrals flooded with infinity. The clouds float by beneath our feet. Listen. They sound swollen, like limousines with tinted windows and a gargantuan pulse. The hummingbird gum is cold with blinking. But the shore is a clean equation. Shake it little baby, shake it like a willow tree.
Pearls glitter in the membrane of a necktie as a pendulum swings back and forth in the package by the door, accompanied by a late night song. Think of this as a sample of cognition, the pollination of an idea of cheese by an errant quadrilateral. Not so much salt as a cardiovascular igloo immersed in thumps. How does one satisfy a craving like this? The propositional sign is a fact. The wall searches for an apricot, but cannot be expressed as a proposition unless it’s coated with primer and then lightly sanded. A name has meaning only in the context of a delicatessen, or shoe store. We are tangled in one another’s arena. The espadrille is tinted with the dreams of walking. Shadows sleep in abstraction. A layer of languorous dress floats in a kind of swimming pool in which a moss accomplishes an idea of birth. All this makes me feel a little extraordinary, like someone who writes with immoderation and memory sauce.
Can you blame me? The hours are in knots and the foundry caresses a moon overflowing with mist. I feel the wings of a dragon begin to lift the body of a paragraph above a bohemian melody. How to describe such feeling? With tourniquets and paper.
With sapphires and pipes. With toads and heat. With foliage and undulation. With anything that can become an actuality of muslin or oak and thoughts adrift in their own birth and development. If the paragraph is an embryo then Baudelaire is a gynecologist.
Said the postman just as he was leaving. The parcel has an electric mustache. This sometimes happens in the post. The mail begins as a treasure of possibility and commerce and ends as a badge of dusty resignation.
All things monstrous are eventually addressed as Mr. and Mrs. Outcome. The narrative is pushed forward by wildlife, elephants and cactus and squirrels. The cactus do most of the work. They use a form of telekinesis called needling. They needle and needle until something moves.
A logical picture of facts is a thought. A bottle of squirts is an interaction. The surf is ratified by drawing. Orchids grab the light and make it appealing, a juice in which colonnades of hosiery rupture with 12:30 p.m. and Ecuador finds a parking space in my heart.
It is essential to a thing that it can be a word, a group of words, or a small intestine at twilight. It’s pretty hard to think of an object apart from its connection with other things. The highway arouses cruising. Feathers solicit flight. A blast of imagined dynamite reveals a face of amber. The shoal is a Möbius of brooding solidarity. Diamonds blaze in the glory of velvet.
So you see, if there is a picture, the elements of the picture will behave in a certain way with one another. The picture will walk out of its frame and shiver until someone drapes a blanket around it.
The silence is gorgeous. The indigo is providential. There is no snow. There is only fire. The wood spits sparks at the moon. The vertebrae of an engine of ice enlists drums of water. The water corresponds to the dictates of rain. The thinness of time in the streets of Paris make one’s sneakers swell until the puddles become drawers full of push-ups and flirts. Ears wander the sounds of Mercury. The feathers are dry as ever at the scarf foundry. The sugar plow is available for viewing between 11:00 a.m. and posterity.
And so on, as if the general form of proposition had to face itself in a boxing match, and the fog rolled in and made everything a form of baptism, a renaissance dripping with sweat. Are opals gems, or hints of paradise? The nouns grapple for meaning, and the sentence pushes its words to the end, where they become Tuesday, and smell of benediction.

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