It's A Wrap

The hunger of the elephant bends the light. The landscape expands into buttes and canyons. And since the planet is a sphere, we nail the fencing to the brow of its resonance and stiffen into erudition. Dollop bloom on all the paths. Maturity is the prominence of living in a heaven created by ewer and cordiality. The concertina lies in the street abandoned to its rumor. This gets the ideas going. The leaves are rustling because we twisted the available space into henna. The ooze of battle must be flailed or it will be defeated by the softness of alpaca. I slouch through the landscape looking for God knows what. I exceed every vanished future and gaze at the drizzled vermilion of the setting sun. The mirror is tied to its shape. The oboe’s impenetrable body shoves music into thumbs. The skull is packed with idle thoughts and plywood. It’s tangled inside the subject, which hasn’t been decided yet. We’re all still waiting for a topic. Something like an airplane, or the infinite possibilities of the guitar. Sometimes inciting a cause draws applause and sometimes the rain comes down splattering plywood. Imagine. Pepper running a salt scheme. Timelessness sympathetically crushed into clocks. The orchid spreads its being delicately into the quiet speech of the bayou. Listen to shape doing a volume. Beam paints at cracked walls. The candy glows on a hill. The engine that is the eyeball is wedged beneath the brow where it can visually digest a hot visceral pronoun. You can name that pronoun. My arm extends and begins to itch. This focuses my performance on sandstone, which is coordinated by wind and becomes a species of language. I can taste the distance. It’s swirled in the stars. They come out later, when I’m curled on the ground. Embodiment is emphatic. The light stirs the words into calculus. We use mathematics to chalk the kinematics. Dynamics have their own mathematics, which is an energy distilled and dedicated to the unmitigated realism of the lobster, which is a crustacean with a preference for murky environments, efforts such as this, this endeavor to create a semantic island, a body of words that make reference to things such as they were before they burbled into being, which is to say potentialities, eventualities, instrumentalities. Mutinies, euphonies, lunacies. The elbow is in control of its own reality. But the lobster equals its characteristics and does this by growing its own furniture. It’s a wrap. We can go now. The shapes are beginning to mingle with the dark. The fractious lies down with the monumental. The bistro opens its doors. The oboe is still at it, still simmering in its valves like a boat drifting down a river of sound. When sound is patterned it cracks. It becomes another sinking sun and one more lonely night.