The Manufacture Of Dirt

The airs of the ants annoy my chest. The fat night goes askew in its myriad flashing. Traffic lights, headlights, moon. In the morning, it is dazzling to see the grain open to the rays of the sun. My hot attention flies with the wind. My marshy head begins humming its swamps. I see an empty parking lot and think, rocks are the panacea of Asia. 

The vague prayers of my temperament sprawl in the air for my rescue. I feel the warm sugar of a gelatin knee. I hear the cry of a fork as the knife wiggles its plumage. The ruby indicates that the ocean is at ease. The garden swoons in the legs of the bees. I have twisted a nail in the wood of a splintered arena where enactments of semantic nebula fill the rapiers of tact. The coconuts of a complicated sky tumble to the ground in another paragraph. 

Whose nomadic knee has furrowed the dirt for my trickle of thought? I hold a cathedral in my hand: four wings and an abdomen. It lights up like a refrigerator. Grape juice, mustard, painted ladies. The gentle spirit of yesterday hovers over tomorrow dropping parables and syntax. Audacity joins us at the table and swallows a chair. I like it that a spin of sheaves stirs in the muscle between my legs. Can I say that the beak of that sparrow churns with a providence that I’m not done rowing? 

I have caused perception to open and lift the day into mending. The back door slams on the smells of the kitchen. The verdure favors the manufacture of dirt, not belt buckles, not tricky guitar strings. Just intentions. They’re obvious. They’re everywhere. But what’s underneath them? Dirt. Every time I hear of a chance to rid myself of memories I shiver in the cold and need them back. 

I get stormy sleep. My knee drinks the heat of the waves. I force an old dazzling temperament to tangle with theorems of disentanglement. The air gets up and hovers over a terrain of vagrants. Asian hay carpets seethe with the myths of catastrophe. I feel subversive. I relax control to stimulate the vagaries. 

To examine antique realities. 

A subtle velocity tints the seaweed surrounding my plough. I spread a soft light of memory in the tibia kitchen and the commas cry with the burning hot plop of a twinkle on the miasma of my inner humidity, which is entangled in mysteries of violence and space. Power to the regatta. Power to the pounce of the panther. Power to the empire of the light bulb. Power to the swirls of light in my pretty maelstrom of augurs and tom-toms. I’m willing to change direction at any time. There are samples of my flexibility on the edge of the soap. Help yourself. 

Power to the saliva that drools from the mouth of reverie.

Swimming is divine. But walking is faster.

Power to walking. Power to swimming. Power to the follies of asphalt, which favor the charity of wheels. Power to the ideology of socks, which is soft with sequestration. Power to the tenderness of cork, which is porous, and to coffee, which has blends. Power to the theatre, which tends toward action. Power to humming, which accompanies strumming, and the ring of syllables, which are assimilable, and the blossoming of speech, which circulates in words. Power to the symmetries of structure and the enchantment of floating. Power to the oval, which is almost round, and to the ellipse, which is a generalization of the circle, and resembles a circle, but isn’t a circle, and has eccentricity. Power to the jackknife, which folds and can go in a pocket, and to the shoebox, which is full of tissue, but mostly to trays, which carry glasses, and may be cleaned with a sponge, or a brush, and used again, which is a form of repetition, which is a form of rhythm, which is an element of music, which is a conveyance of value, which has to do with the worth of something, which is a proposal of what is good, and a proposal of what is bad, which is comparative to the understanding, which is a mental process, a charge of energy slopping around in the head, which chafes against the skull, and splashes against the rocks, which are also in the head, and are called images, which are pictures, dishes in the sink, mist rising from a river, or anything, really, which serves my purpose here, my mandate, if you want to call it that, which is how this got started, this thing, this momentum, this intuitive zone, this field of resonances, which is an amplification of something I feel, something I try to pedal, perturb into being, assert, coordinate, try to get across, squeeze into words, into an idea, a yo-yo, an imbroglio, anything I can work into further tumult, which is comprehensive and vague, and expansive like the ocean, which is wet, and deep, and full of strange and luminous fish. 

There. I said it. And now I want to begin the sculpture. The gargoyle. The anatomy. The cabana. 

I want to suggest an effulgent ball of nailing things. Sometimes a cricket speaks of agitations that offer a way to heat a problem gently to ashes and we begin to poke at time as if it operated by handspring and rattle. A tiny head appears in a woman’s tear and creates sensations of adobe puppet. Our world is unrivalled in horses. There are movements that continue to signal ideas of botany for the briefcases we carry. Believe me. If I could accommodate your touch I would cradle it into milky action, so there. Let me see those nipples. I’m skulking now. You’re right. These words need grease. Dwarf fever sprinkles lung nerves in a line of beautiful irritations. The poultry fulminates to black. Our carpet has scarlet reveries, and this makes us believe that apricots need arms. Although, you know, they don’t. but if they did, they would revise our notions of fruit. Mutation is what it’s all about, baby. That, and seamless cloudbursts.