Shout a blatant sugar to the planet. The map is a drink of mountains and lakes, a tree swarming with pewter terrines and can-openers. Is this Puerto Rico? An armchair is a place for reflection. Chalk stitched together with icicles.
If I go away it’s only because I have a pain in my heart that digs assault and I must mull it over in the parking lot with some purpose. The raggedness of hay awakens the stone of misnomer. I return home in time to see a philosophy give birth to a meatball. A sheet of paper lugs a knee across the room and deposits it in a ledger where everything morose and tattooed is given a description and a fork.
The bath salts rest in Hinduism.
Why is there no income for making glass spurs? Are there no glass cowboys? No glass horses?
There is exultation in lipstick. If I whisper equations to a Kentucky still I will win an absent metal by molding microcosms of spearmint and delta. This all takes place in a moccasin. The pamphlet said so. It came in the mail. It glittered. I plunged into it. I took a zoom lens and focused on the buffalo in the plaster. That’s when my muscles gave me movement and the museum finally opened.
Buy a banana, my splatter dumpling, I said to no one in particular. Sell yourself. Bristle like an ombudsman on the shore of our understanding. Become a cosmetic for the sorrows of our language, a red engine translating the propane of transcendence into heaves of rapturous induction. I am the grammar that you worry about. I point my writing tools to a tricky purpose and let all hell break loose. I manage by an overflow of everything that the highway puts into emotion. I drive a long thermometer. I have a dog. His name is Hoax. You’ll find a gun in the glovebox. It’s loaded with truth.
There are moments of twisting a handkerchief into a prayer. Spread your eyes into the landscape and wish for mushrooms. Can I say something? Your éclairs are delicious. Other experiments have revealed that property is a property of property. And has properties.
There is a reason the refrigerator is in the garden. Spirits wear collar studs, you know. I have gleefully selected a very sexual float for tonight’s entertainment. I can’t tell you the weight of amber but I know how to eat a cookie. It begins with a stimulus and ends with a groan. A singular thought jangles into the paragraph like a rhinoceros dressed in rubies. I’ve seen this sort of thing before. It is generally the result of a longshoremen strike, but you never know. There might also be a festival later, one with heft and polish, like the stubble of the stratosphere on a good day in July.
The goldfish hit the pavement with everything they’ve got. It’s an effective signal. Our ride is here. It’s horizontal in the light, but oval in the shadows, where the enigmas bubble.
Were you expecting something different? An answer? A cure for language? A sack of carefully gathered mushrooms? A large granite rock glistening with moisture in the middle of a rainforest? I was, too, to be honest. But all I found was this Black and Decker drill. It’s a 12 volt. Not a 20 volt. But I think it’ll get the job done.
What was the job? Does anyone remember?
There is a certain resonance to the banjo that belies the spirit of the grapefruit. At least, that’s the kind of spin I like to put on things. It smells of employment.
Are we together on this? Good. Let’s get the convulsions going. I have answers for the furniture. Some of them fly, some of them don’t. Some just diffuse into push-ups and chrome.
Chrome might look good on this car but the gasoline has no chin. Lightning bolts have been hurled forward to anticipate the unfettered behavior of children. Language returns to its imagery and the imagery returns to its trapeze.
And swings back and forth.
The greatest realities are usually the most obvious, which makes them hard to find. All the morbid disturbances of the intellect are due to coupons.
I have the skull and skill to know a skull is skillful. That a sponge takes on moisture and that a sink is a good place to do the dishes. That the breadboard makes a soft thud when a knife goes quickly through a loaf of bread and that a triangle is different from a delicatessen. That a certain amount of energy is necessary for being and that being is often sticky.
That the furrows in this soil mean that something has been planted. Or is about to be planted. That the dirt has been carefully tilled. That a part of each year’s profit is regularly put into farm improvement, so that the hillsides show little or no signs of erosion, and the barns and silos are brightly painted structures of good proportions. That the rain smells good. And the mail arrives in the afternoon. But not always. The war continues, but the herbs help. The most everyday things here speak of things unheard. How do I know the true interpretation of a foghorn? I have a loud metallic ringing in my collarbone.