Sunday, July 23, 2017

As Water Is In Water

This sauce needs a snowball. I want to sugar the smell of your memory at this stage. To live in this mud is to deny to deepen to believe. Autumn is a heavy liquid that slips into winter. So knotty closer to you that your perfume opens my elevator.
Body embassy to the contrary I’m a reflection of surgical device. I have a franchise on candle wire. Embolden causes bone. Palpate flash of mimosa buttermilk. Troika fire. The quantum key breaking in my shoulder pin causes nothing but magnets.
The writing of the mollusk stings the gravity of convergence. The letter of the air acquires a puddle. I hang in the belief of doing water by swarming an apricot with the blue emissions of my inner pronoun, which shakes in its hooks. The mêlée that is nature has a thematic storm to railroad as the bandits vanish into the hills. The velour of sleep finishes its fingers in the sink.
I have shreds of Rocky Mountain moss and subtle pants. I have a drink to look for lazy sequels to busy days and slip toward catastrophes of grammar. I glean honest calories from stealing my shoes with walking. I write an aromatic sound to hit the flu into orbit. I see angels of rain swing down and flood the tamarind and dry river beds of Texas.
I’ve embarrassed myself before and I’ll do it again. Pile up the forget book. I do ink in a foggy condition of philosophic sap. I have a stem of fabric for the verbal regattas splashing around in my tired brain. Nerves are an accidentally heated species of scrambled cat bath.
I drink a broom of emotion and am swept away. The noun is a hummingbird of nature’s leg and is a steady precursor to the expansion of thought. Sawdust marks the place where the marble phenomenon of art hammers at the capharnaüm of life and awakens the sleep of scrap metal. The full articulation of a knuckle points to the flying ray of the windshield.
Catch a sturgeon from a muslin bee ray. It is to finish drinking to build a pleasure. It is to calculate a swampy dying sadness with harmonica twine. A tongue reflected on the virgin ceiling. Percussion of a sneaker’s person moment.
Yesterday’s scarlet is today’s sorbet feeling. Small lashing of a lush clawing that drums the eyes into seeing. Head to the street where the damask whistles meringue. Picnic on Desire Mountain. Embolden the magnolia that it spreads its limbs to the stars and catches the universe in the lap of its theology.
There is nothing sadder than a naked heart. Cotton field in Mississippi heat. The blood of the thrush spelling its pleasures on a blue towel. A sorcerer gnaws a reverie while a man in a tinfoil mask dances with a blowtorch. The cottonmouth is slow but unpredictable.
This sleeve is a natural expansion of what there is to do about a spatula. There is a conception of height that weighs less than a pound and a coin of water immodest as wheels. It makes the lavender move closer. We need the perfume of it to pivot in blurry coalition and pay for the linen. There is a shadow in my hand wiggly as rhubarb and cagey as a sullen homunculus that demands expression in the totem of my caterwaul.
And so it shall be. That one day a depth will rise to the surface and cease to be a depth and be more like a season, an indigenous part of a spectral muskellunge, and leap into the air, and fill the eyes with spectacle. This is called looking, which is a form of seeing, which is a form of perception, which is a form of straining, an effort to be in the world, and take notice of things, and write them down, where they may become guitars or wool. For example, the little Blue Heron is white for its first year until it goes into its breeding season, when the plumage becomes a splotchy blue, and the man in the boat is alone and watchful, and mesmerized by the waves, their rhythm and form, which is an energy moving through the water, as energy moves through the brain, and becomes thought.
And the heron takes flight. The sky is a girl wandering the dead body of the moon. The garden introduces us to the poem of the stars. How much am I assuming here? I have a forehead and a pound of knowledge to trade for a fast car and a getaway plan, which is all I know at the moment, as things fall into place and the car starts, and the engine heats and the words take off for France, which is how I feel, and is both absurd and meaningless, but not so absurd it can’t be verified or put in a bag and carried across the border.

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