I always feel pain in my right arm. It’s become a companion. And what’s this? This is a sentence swimming beneath my face. Human skin is phenomenally soft. Context is everything.
When was the last time you fired a gun?
Wisps of incense unroll into the air. Is there an art to enduring pain?
Follow me. I will show you the effulgence of the dawn as it ascends the Cascades to the east. A spoonful of maple syrup shining in sunlight. Trees hammered into shape by wind and rain. Smoke billowing out in plumes from a crack in the earth.
These words have been cooked in grammar. This is why we see Walt Whitman walking down a street in Camden, New Jersey. It’s the language of water. Rhythm makes us move.
Strange sounds echo in the darkness. Genitalia like being caressed. A shovel breaks the ground. I want the fog to come out of my head and describe itself.
Music is an oasis of the ears. It’s hard to break free of the Matrix. Music helps. Music helps itself to the divinity within and shouts wake up! wake up! wake up!
The Black Angels, from Austin, Texas.
Think of me as a window, a sweet leap into the realm of dreams. What is this emotion beating against my ribs? My muscles revolve around my bones looking for something to do. It’s astonishing, the way the bones of the shoulder work in symphony. I want to behave indecisively to see what will happen. What might happen. What could happen. What happens. What is happening.
Truth and intuition advance the evolution of the T-shirt.
This is the place where the coyote stops and stares.
What is the origin of art?
A theory of light moves in its fur like an arctic fox. Metaphors enjoy a certain dispensation from the rigors of perceived reality. A cavern wall densely covered with the images of animals punctuate the irregularities of rock and make it alive with the grace of their lines.
Outside, the blood jingles with sunlight. Blue leans into green. Nothing is wholly obvious without becoming enigmatic. Our language is in prison. Open the gates and let the words loose.
I have five wheels: four on the ground and one in my hand. Rebekah Del Rio sings “No Stars.” Welcome to the Terra Incognita of the human brain.
Reality is a constant creative enterprise. We create it as much as it creates us. Failure is the form life assumes when it concentrates too zealously on achieving the impossible.
Who is the dreamer? You’re the dreamer. I’m the dreamer. This is a dream. There is a swamp in my finger and a sample of daybreak emerging from a hole in Denmark. This is the syntax of the soul. These words are needles for sewing a fabric of light. The smell of animal fat burning in a stone lamp. Shakespeare’s beard flirting with the puppets of human folly.