The Music Of Elsewhere

The café is in twinkle mode. I infringe on nothing but my own assembly of smell. I linger in invention, which is a metaphysics of aching acceptance. My injuries require a museum, dioramas of Fauve pioneers, a Nebraska in which one’s wallet charms the interior of a percolated airport. The thermometer reaches into its temperatures for a replica of paper. The pepper is an adjustment, but the salt is a sensation of mutual support, creating a bridge to the chronology of our buttons. Everyone swarms with opinion. It’s anarchic to do otherwise. Even the crows approve. The shovel clanks against the concrete floor of the garage and the glockenspiel collects dust in the corner where the shadows stumble through the music of elsewhere. The animals spread into the hills. The hills spread into the afternoon. The afternoon squeezes the world with its fading light and lifts oblivion into its warmer emissions. We join the butter and pull the string. Baskets of fruit tumble on our heads. I can hear Istanbul in the distance. It sounds like a glass of milk spinning with lobsters. I can’t control my opinions. I just let them wander around on paper until they become something I can throw over the wall and wait to hear them echo.