Chuckle Buckle Prawn Guffaw

There are hundreds of ways to learn the guitar, but writing poetry isn’t one of them. I will one day be an octogenarian. Will that help? Probably not.

I agree with limestone. The world is a tease. Headland drool. Sagebrush fields and basalt rocks.

What ugly leaves this tree is forming. I can’t explain my eyebrows. I’m traveling along a line of clatter cluttered with hundreds of brilliant dahlias. I have the emotive locomotive pulse of propane in the rain. I’m all roots and words. Everything is a hustle including this guide to the screams of the local chateau. I’m out to prove the worth of writing in a postmodern culture. I do that by drifting, like clouds. Sobbing does the rest. Hills like white elixirs.

I’m on a path to glory. I can feel that now. I’m in revolt. I dig your camaraderie. Welcome to the oasis. Here’s a sandwich of pineapple, lettuce and ham. Here’s a pair of aesthetic shoes with stars on them. You will need them for the hike into the stratosphere.

I feel at home on paper. I have a nice plump duchy and ten pounds of thinking churning in my blood. The process is a matter of brocade. This is done by working a supplementary weft into the weave, creating the illusion that segments have been embossed into the fabric of my life, or embroidered on top of it, like the sparkle of hypothetical butter.

I dangle my panic over the dots conversing in comic books. Winter expands my sense of black, especially that bone black of Rembrandt’s paintings, which he got from the charring of animal bones or waste ivory in a closed crucible, and used it to clothe his subjects with the somber facts of life.

And what, pray tell, are the somber facts of life?

Mortality. Hard-to-get-at elbow joints. The rumble of the stomach during group meditation. Sticky fingers, seborrheic dermatitis, the taste of grass when you’re grazing on a mohair dish of monster eyeball. The weight and movement of the world, which is constantly in rotation, constantly changing, constantly demanding that you change with it.

Or suffer the consequences, which wallop our heads with history.

I’m breaking free of my chains. I’m no longer in this world I’m looking at tourists. I’m adrift in rivers of reverie. Nocturnal discharge. The smell of the sea.

Electricity is timeless. Galvanized bucket with the sternum of Marie Laurencin. Attend to this strain, Peter Green on guitar, I’m there at last, a bag of nails, a discarded TV. My eyebrows are soft pink stars.

Let’s build a slide. Let me take you into a time warp.

I’m healed by exploration. I have the enhanced luggage of a lobster tapdancing on a picnic table next to a hole in the rain. I feel the wet of the universe like two sweaty wrestlers. My address is a canker sore. A dragonfly flutters and darts around my head.

Drink this and call me in the morning.

What is it? It’s the interior of a good idea. Perception walks in dirty water. My head is a nebula of hair and thought in a milieu of rogue elevators. Rattlesnake nutmeg. The city of Houston lost in vapor. Whatever you feel right now don’t force it let it be.

Age is a son-of-a-bitch.

This is the André Breton room. Eat this sentence. It will make you strong and beautiful. Eat it all, ganglions and tongue.

I’m enthralled with the predicate embedded in this brocade. Portugal materializes like a tug out on the sound. Language pumps an income to the surface of an unemployed poem. Thousands celebrate the invention of the metaphor, which stirs in the mouth of the sky creating thunder.

I like to flirt with apples. I have a jungle in my breath. I have a Cubist elbow and a smear of meaning on my hands. This is me pumping on a concertina. And this is me sitting in an office, gazing out of a window, sprinkling the air with prepositions. Lift this sentence with your eyes: ramble the amble to bramble and scramble, my only son, and you will one day find nuance in the indeterminate and mastery in the dead.

When will I ever be done?

Done with what? Oh you know. Circulating. Hauling soubriquets of meaning across the desert in the middle of a cuticle. Then going to sleep. Entering that other world. The one whose proposals are solace to the holes in my head.