Thermodynamics As A Community Of Nouns

Antiques guarantee the gravity of the blowtorch. The welder lifts his helmet and nods to the apparitions dancing on the walls. The zoom lens moves in on stilts. Our tour begins its journey of unicorns and broccoli. Clouds scudding through the sky inform us of feelings yet to be felt, celebrations yet to be celebrated, funerals prophesied in the guts of frogs, tendrils of sinister cloud hanging down from the heavens like twisting anacondas of hell’s colorful aristocracy.

Is life a simulacrum of somewhere finer and better, or is this it, is this the sleep from which we must awaken? Puddles return the sky to itself after all the water that has fallen out of it. Isn't that what writing is? What words are? A refund, a redemption, items from a lost and found, sad, enigmatic objects with stories to be told?

You can masturbate almost anywhere. But try to be discreet. Sometimes all you need is a sack in the hand and a destination in mind to survive the hazards of impulse. If you manage to keep your pants up, the world will reveal the magic of espionage. Let us tromp through the world like God’s spies, quiet, unassuming blokes boiling with paradigms and saints, temperamental philosophers painting despair on the good soft linen of our redundancies.

My gaze sometimes turns to the mouthwash on the counter and stays there, lost in that beautiful blue of the liquid, cool and divine.

Who was the first human to say ‘water’? And what was their word? Their word for water. In Norwegian vann. German wasser. Zulu amanzi. Welsh dŵr. Vietnamese nước.

Tôi muốn đi bơi.

Or, as Hegel put it, Die Externalisierung des Willens als subjektiver oder moralischer Wille ist Handlung.

This plywood is nascent. That is to say, the spice is in the rack, and the senses are aroused. The revolution snaps into place and everything begins to look seaworthy. The embryo of a novel crawls into its pages and begins to evolve. Characters develop, ideas are floated, a cake is baked, pleasantries are exchanged. The world crackles as it turns in space. Virtues are decided. The novel ends with a symposium on perception: is it true that we all see things differently?

Yes.

And no.

Night glitters in its empire. The horses jingle in their bells. The concept of property decays in its archaisms. What is it to own something? Is it simply to exclude others from the use or enjoyment of something, or is there an actual bond, a eucalyptus hardened against the vagaries of the sidewalk? I am silver in my reflections, but platinum at my wedding. Audacity talks a good game but in the end it all comes down to pineapple. Yellow winds bronze the face of history. Pharmaceutical concerns are packed in cotton. The cows are built with kettledrums. Fog rolls in. The light turns red. We hear a faint music in the background. I lean forward to kiss you.

Still here? Still reading? Thank you.

All it takes is a puff or two to blow the little hairs off of the computer screen.

Nothing is really empty. Not even nothingness is empty. This is what makes Mallarmé so unpredictable. Lightning riddles the conjurations of his words. Galaxies hurl through the room proposing an end to pain. I find a wilderness in my skull teeming with resurrection when I shave. Why resurrection? What is not brought back when we most think it dead? Gone and buried? Nothing dies. Energy can neither be created or destroyed. It just assumes different forms. It stumbles into a flint and becomes a spark. It merges with traffic and becomes a horn. It flings itself into moonlight and becomes a trout. It is expressed in numbers. It becomes calculus. It becomes chalk on a blackboard. Nipples and ripples and wildly expressed panaceas.

Splendor, glory, magnificence and softball.

Hardball is different. Hardballs are stitched by hand and have a round cushioned cork center. I mention this because embroidery only enters the picture later, when there is time for discussion, and no one needs to be goaded or tilted in order to talk. There is a loud whack and the ball bounces to left field where it is caught by a pterodactyl and carried to the end of this sentence and dropped.

I pick it up and hear a giant monotony walking around inside of it. Cork. Or Corky, if you prefer. Consider the sport healed at last. A line drive to first will simply be a luminous stream of consciousness that might be talked about later, when it’s quiet and the crowds have gone home. There is a cure for the clarinet as well. But it must be taken in abstract form or there is a tendency to smear the air with drums.