Friday, May 5, 2017


I think we can all agree that sleep is a kind of knitting. Kiss the descent and watch the sparkle of knives. Flu sweat in the kitchen. Sullen troikas that fill the arena of the eye without causing conversation. These are phenomena that echo in prose with the tenacity of air-raid ulcers. 
Inflammation is undoubtedly a more visible kind of achievement. One might infer here a gastric juice specially organized for life. Thinking is an activity but let’s not exaggerate it with biology. A buckle of smoke completes the career of northern pans simmering in the ironworks of the mind, but it does so without a special diet. Instead, it uses E minor like a lullaby to a dying friend. The exultation of a tiger roars out of the night of science. We are at the mercy of our own understanding. A storm of the mind that wanders the head in a country of eyes. 
The welder is hidden by sparks. The King of Oil recedes into the fog. 
Carpentry causes the clocks to wander out of time and the carrot crickets are lazy as we pilot the birth of the sea. It is immense to speak and play at lavender. It is musical to walk the tarmac with a silver mustache. Amusing and graceful to help the cats catch fish on the opposite shore. 
Does any of this shake the gum of vivacity? Do politics stick to the mouth? Is the moon a rock?
Yes, yes, and no. The moon is neither a rock nor a thing of rats and policemen. The moon is the moon. The moon is a torpor of dough on the glowing shore of a dangerous awakening. If the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore. If it does not, that is the reverse feeling hardened in the discipline of science. 
Meaning particles are vibrations in the subatomic world. This makes the moon appear very large when it is standing next to you in the subway. For example, country music can manifest itself in a confusion of intentions depending on which way the wind is blowing, or the stars might be leaning down to kiss the mountain-tops at the very moment Mister Love stumbles out of the bar. 
Every day I hammer at the daily material of canvases and time and the nuclei of Wyoming in order to make sense of the cathedral gently clawing at the door. 
There is beauty and satisfaction when the roots of our memories are painted with chaos. 
I crave a solitary puddle. If it creases, I am amazed. If it does not, it does not. The iron is only as good as its objective, which may go untreated until there is a general insurgency of older fowl.
But must I apologize? Adaptation is always a special concentration of effort. I have in my pocket a little context that will flex itself for the regatta pen. At the time of tunes and faucets the plumber swarms with a blue shirt, and this makes me certain that the poultry would like their freedom like anyone else. Vision bursts from the queen as she fills her clothes with meanings. “My hip is not a flying tiger but a casserole of bone,” she shouts. The affairs of the gnarled are always a tale of knives.
It’s an elastic and exquisite skill to make pills of exultation. Boil the whispers floating at the border of Iran and Afghanistan and the breath of a rogue will offer you the appearance of a bandaged face. This will further confirm that E-minor is a map of agitation combed with a winter horizon. The roots of this language go deep into the woods of Persia, where cinnabar and kiosk are joined by needle and thread. 
Rumi once said “silence is the language of God, everything else is a poor translation.”
This is a pure aggression. Not even a translation. It is, in the place of silence, the fall of snow on the mountains of Afghanistan. The frayed edge of a neglected carpet, a drop of water on a mahogany table. And in the place of signs and omens, a hum in the bones, a woman with a golden voice, the weight of paradise in the tongue of a mute. We stand in a foundry trembling with a redeeming love, and wait for the metal to congeal into words. 
There is a strange velocity in wishing for a road and then seeing that road and getting on that road and going wherever that road goes. 
Be a windshield and shovel your thoughts into words. Make a sausage of words that is tenable to float in a paragraph of hands and pocket money. Pile the light against the sorbet. Thinking will harness these thoughts to a road in the woods and ride them into the moonlight like a team of mattresses. 
Philosophy means living among ice and high mountains. It’s different than, say, a quilt or a moment of road rage. It is here that our carriage acquires new meaning as a roller skate.
How much truth does a spirit dare to endure? Cemetery plot on a marble knee. Glorious thunderstorms in a swimming pool of the heart. A clock for translating time into mirrors. Green rake for the stomach of night. Agile toes on a crazy shore.

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