Muscle Beach Party

Muscles stir to establish themselves as unions. I sleep in a skein of hair to shave this point and make it register as a guest to materialism. I have faith in ginger. I have faith in immanentism. I have faith in the mundane as well as the transmundane. The toads are harnessed and pull us into Capernaum. This is a messy place. The houses are full of legends and bright shiny coins. I lend a thin ignition to the suffering of the piano. Even the music gets down. It lies on the floor in a miasma of swooning melody, and then begins to snore. I became a man that day.

Stars are won in neon. It is thoughtless to scold a table. The French fries ooze commas of vigorous percussion and the sentence fiddles its way into obscurity like a Chinese junk on the South China Sea. We rest below deck balancing the scent of musk with eggs and syntax.

Well-being has a way of combing its plumage that knocks down all the doors preventing the magic of rags, and so the odor of creosote murmurs its nonchalance to whatever train happens to be moving through the wall. There was a time when one could wander the aisles of a hardware store and find things that mattered. Things that were useful. Things like nuts and bolts. Things like shovels and hoes. The seagulls gathered at a point in the sky and then circled one of the many islands that occurred to me just now. The gliding of swans is an altogether different matter. It’s ok to whistle like a teapot if a jet of steam meets a pressure pulse and there are words adequate to describe the ambiguity of success and the romance of failure. If the words are boiling you might consider expanding them into a warehouse full of noise. Noise can be gardened. You can feel it in the shoulder. The bones and furniture. The segments and grammar. The cartilage and wasps. The thorniness in the language when it’s knocked into luxury and even the chairs seem flirtatious.

Sometimes the grazing of animals reminds me of things that echo the cravings of the spirit during sports events. It’s easier to use an eraser than to go away and comb your hair. People can tell you what happened later. I have no idea what Nietzsche means when he says that morality is instinctual. If I were you I’d just get a hot dog and worry about it later.

Wealth can mean so many things to so many people.

The intuition of legs approves the promenade in a suggestion of feet. This has been proved by the fact that things in this world change. The coconut palm has a sensual squirt. I have the wasp’s thorny tongue for a furniture of flames and the curious effect of language on a flight attendant. The lushness of remedy in a simple frequency can accomplish eyes. And a library is the perfect place for the gyrations of a fish.

The flair of seaweed remedies the carpet with a regatta of tattered memories. The fog bends itself into a retina and commits to a long sweet silence. You’d think logic was a bath of warm water and dreams carried blood to the heart. There are regions of the mind that no one explores. We dream of a ratatouille of words, a catastrophe of words, and then begin to speak, hesitantly at first, and then with a rush of ash and fire that billows all the way to Omaha. You can say it’s the rain. You can say it’s the thunder. But you can’t make the world go backwards. You can’t take something you said and put it in a vase and expect it to mean more than what it is. And who knows? It might get watered, and it might not. It might get up and walk away. It might arch itself into grief and play a mean guitar.