Friday, July 14, 2017

Lassitude Of Twisting Quintessence

Camel camaraderie away like bones in densely mixed tongues. Plop cat of chaos paint. Street on the roof of my shoulder where the pavement is speed. Body pins falling from an edge of morning. The weary emissary crosses the field. A church bell rings. Religious practices are charming if they don’t pinch too much or provoke guerrilla warfare. Bob Kaufman crouches in my heart, a forgotten corner I didn’t know I had until he stumbled into it, a brilliant maniac waiting to be loved.
I get a bang out of cashmere. Perception is easy. It’s also bugs.
Grimace talk chair. Swarm and swirl and swirl and swarm and hold my eyes in this sentence long enough to read what is coming next which is blinding in its brightness. I am coming toward you in ashes. The beauty of ash is primordial. Support the rod of wandering. Thursday’s salt, Friday’s sheen. Heaven in a warehouse.
A snap plumps my heft into operation. I constrained an imponderable crack to say obstetrics to you and mean it. And I do I mean to stroll to the end and make another beginning out of moss. Innocence adapts to figures of speech. Metaphors set up camp in Romania.
I stand here in your café riveted to your definitions of sluice. The snow is an embodiment of heaven and I can understand its presence in the spoons, but the fugue that just went by was big as a truck and hinted at molybdenum as a possible resource in the future of our confusion.
Pile up the food of thought on pallets of mimosa butter. The stone makes the toad go up the mountain in a chivalry of popping thunder. Queen Mab in her greenery swarms the climbing she does with touch and artery. Flashing pins of complicated speed cause the manuscript in the attic to get Mustang and dive through the air on San Francisco hills. Later, after breakfast, the words convene in glass and I feel the obstinacy of the window when I photograph the turbulence of the aurora borealis as it existed three million years ago in an agate.
I’m writing an enigmatic mimosa, a mundane welcome ticket for the velvet hippopotamus of my congenial rage. I’m foggy, traveling in a misty state. Nothing is clear except wax. The wind climbs my capharnaüm. The introspection rivals the transcendence of a hinge.
The door opens and here we are.
I need the elf because the ice cracks. The caboose has a frog for rent, and a calm green moment that bubbles out of a floorboard. I’m visiting the barge right now and forcing myself to pray for the penumbral irritations I’ve managed to gather over a lifetime of irritations. The penumbral irritations are special because they exist in a timeless margin of funny brochures.
The locals say the skin of the Colorado River Toad makes a good hallucinogen, but my irritations assume a life of their own and continue as words, pulling images and thoughts behind them, forging new associations, new immensities of penumbral art, new irritations, new speculations, new fitting rooms for the mall, which is deserted, thanks to Amazon, and a dreadful economy. Hence, words, which have an exchange value of their own, I don’t know what, bitcoins, recommendations, comments on Facebook, seesaws, patents, descriptions of pain, the strange behaviors of cats.
They say the lake is garish and extroverted, but I found it hanging from a branch of the words, braided and abstract.
Lassitude of twisting quintessence. Sunset cloud sleeping in the orchard. The breath of the poem is a perusal of Eden floating in a fog of absence. Frankly, the handkerchief is not the panacea I thought it was but just another busy conception of dirt. The sky offers its sloth in a crate on the shore. We can use it to build our conversation.
Or not.
Hey, here’s a boat. This makes my grammar pink. It does it to cinnamon and then crumbles into upheaval. Garments are often green but the pretzels weren’t and that makes everything harked or something. Crinkled like a scrotum.
Packed with straw.
Children behave. That’s what they say when we’re together. Watch how you play.
I don’t remember much after that. There was a knife on the bottom. I didn’t know quite what to do, so I just flared into talk and added myriad subtleties of tone to my voice to confuse the crowd into thinking it was a form of invocation. You can tell them back home it didn’t quite work. I’m out on bail now. It’s spring, and that rusty old hook is still in me. I can’t quite cut loose. Not just yet. There are still some things I need to do.
I want to magnify the magnetic air until the words in my mouth catch fire. You know? I’m not superstitious but there’s going to come a time when I’ve got to spit them all out like chrome buckles on Attic Street. William Hurt hurries with a hurt back to a Paris taxi. They stop a few blocks later to pick up Geena Davis. This is a typical afternoon for me, my dazzling teeth gliding through an almanac of hope and despair while my shoulders brace for the next burden. This is the membrane of my sparkling world. See the needle nail in the wax man? It’s the B side of the aforementioned membrane. The water shouts meaning at a revelation purged of cows and the scribbles in the sand murmur of impersonal pressures. The mind likes these things. Creosote and ice cream, the ocean rolling in and out.

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