I see adaptation in drinking chocolate. Temperament is a grass like you favor forks. I say these things not because the means are there but because the fabric of consciousness is romantic and vague and scratches at the thesis of ownership like an immigrant eager to come ashore and begin a new life as a rock musician, or forest. Chocolate is singular and therefore fulminates a kick. Neglect damask and meringue is the birth of legend.
Gelatin cabinet for archaic soap. Pillow craze slipping into Hume. The electric car includes buttons. Humming tibia of Rembrandt brown: the sting of the text is a pure can of everyday cravings. A blood vein propels the thunder of the onion to its destiny as a world of buried illumination.
And we are on our way.
Here: have some chicken in a lighter chair. The swirl of the plow drools earthly sod. The mushrooms leave their scarves. Harness the horses and load the propeller. The shade of an island is a percussion in the pool, the heaviness of time in a crude sample of logic distressed by the blush of the abyss, life curbed on a canvas of bleak thematic candor. When it bubbles to the surface it means that the plumber is done with his chaos and the camels are free to enter the fabric of our existence.
And yes, it’s true, I like the word fabric.
I also like getting undressed. I like removing the burden of display. There is a real universe beneath my clothes. Tiny beings at work inside my cells (mitochondria, centrioles, organelles, symbiotic bacteria) weave a syntax of skin and bone that seems to fit me ok. Together they create a front of tenable subjectivity. I get traction in the world with these little brothers and sisters. We have festivals and events. Toothaches, headaches, heartaches. Life wouldn’t be the same without them. Life wouldn’t be life. I would go on non-existing as I non-existed before this mess I call an identity was pulled into this world. And what are any of us doing here? In a word: chocolate. I exist to eat chocolate.
You can improve the varnish of things by moving to a place of better varnish. The phenomena that is knees enjoys a certain closeness. Cartilage caressed by money. The shine of bodies after a shower. Agates in the rain. The marsh entangles its vines like letters written to the Black Angels of Austin. Equations tattooed on a shoulder of gold.
For example, the shear stress in a torque equation is perpendicular to the radius.
Radius of what? Let’s say the rear axle of a Jeep Cherokee. Because that sounds good.
Rear. Axle. Of. A. Jeep. Cherokee. Essieu arrière d'un Jeep Cherokee. Eje trasero de un Jeep Cherokee. Cùl aiseil de Jeep Cherokee.
The camber of a melody in E minor suggests flagellation and lace. Rifles, ivory, nutmeg, and gum Arabic. Breath rising from a man awakened by language. Things float. Distant storms marble the far horizon. The genial regatta exults in chickens. Events occur everywhere agitation drinks its way toward disorientation, but they occur in a special light, they follow the wasps to the land of the Jeweled Canary. And at the junkyard is a sink filled with the dishes of a lonely man.
The improvement of a shade of beard depends on the amount of snowballs available to the armory of a radical subjectivity. Being lonely is a small part of that. The availability of snowballs is purely arbitrary, and therefore copper. Metaphors are generally trumpets, long bright scruples filled with Minnesota.
And yes, there are junkyards, and they are sad places, mournful destinations outside of town, old cars rusting in a dream of black interiors and torrential rains. It sometimes happens that people become strangers to themselves. There are drugs for this, and those for whom the threshold of sensation is suddenly gathered in a Shoshone chant, or a sudden light breeze across Lake Mead. There’s also that first time you touch the warm skin of someone for whom you feel a strong, overwhelming desire to bring into your life.
The Sioux believe that the stone is the truest condition of creation. It is silent and solid and relentlessly specific. That which exists through itself is what is called meaning, Olson once scrawled on a blackboard in Berkeley, California.
Other beverages might include cherry soda, root beer, or gin.
To drink tea is to create drapery. The taste of squabbling that languishes in the bright lips of radar is modulated somewhere near the area of sailing in the mind of a Stoic. Saturday’s rakes play at Saturday. The result is smoke. The willow by the river is moody, yes, but it also recommends propulsion as a source of rebellion, which is something to consider, given the status of Shakespeare’s Hamlet, in which a young woman drowns. This is not a tender world. When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions. Adjustments will be required. Objectivity hardens into a mask and life becomes a defensive ritual. Eccentricity shimmers through an unreconciled life. Even the insects seem nervous.
A more thoughtful debauchery requires helicopters, but who can afford that?
Another thing sugar does is claw the unknown. Tomorrow we’ll have jelly. Life on the lawn can be annoying without a few jars and spoons and something to maneuver on the table during conversation.
Leaves leave results of themselves in lacy decrepitude at the bottom of the creek. It is the substantives of the field that forget to incarnate description in the proper stratum of rocks when the terrain laughs and the hills accomplish the border between forgery and toad by a rapid broom of lightning. There is nothing anthropomorphic about a hill that hasn’t already smiled upon the occurrence of noon at midnight. It is glorious when a full moon deposits samples of itself during an inundation of language and the nomads stop to gaze up at the sky.
And sometimes I’m so happy that a light comes on in the refrigerator when I open the door that I think of André Breton. Who said: we gaze at the unbelievable and believe it despite ourselves.