An Agate Searched By Rain

Wave gently calculated by abstraction. By distraction. Frolic in the gold of spirit. Parables of wing and claw. Parcels of sound smashed into relation. Priapic perturbations. Exultation of contrarieties. I see something in flames, it's hot as a subjunctive, a call for calm. But not really. Something like calm. Akin to calm. The calm that churns secretly for singularity, a marriage of the moon and sun.

Element butter. At a box check a box star. Elongations of a moment of hair. Alembic goat kicking while blinking. A distant fishing embalms the manure of the office. And in the orchard a bear wanders the pungent odors of late fall. Rotten fruit. The glint of a needle in a black helicopter. Altimeter soup. The dizziness of altitude. The muslin belongs to an ancient gerund.

A distant path is dressing our spring in blackberries. Street lighting brings out Saturday’s colors in a lavender masculinity. Which is as feminine and chrome as anyone’s breasts, including chameleons and antique explosions. The sound of the table is based on chamomile. The sound of ants is lush with letters whose rustlings and propagations are awakened by your eyes.

Think of it as the sound of ointment throwing itself into a nutty jurisprudence. Law, all law, is an aching and a convulsing cross-eyed crocodile with an appetite for adjudication by jaw.

Am I overly negative? Am I admissible evidence? Is writing a burden of proof? Am I guilty? Am I innocent? Are words a continuance? Am I in contempt? This is a dismissal. I’m dismissing everything on grounds of malfeasance.

Aurignacian feet. Medieval underwear. This room makes craving a pencil a penetrating exercise in foam. I expressly run to approve a segment of nose in thematic meringue. What a beautiful feeling: I am blatantly against the jewels and cloths of the month of forks.

I support the strange beauty of realism, which is chloride and hurricanes, a scalding sense of demurral in a courtroom I invented for the love of mahogany. The tensions brought about by dying dwell in the sky like a cathedral whose stone has been quarried from a drug.

The carpenter’s algebra is a prolongation of spirit in the snow. The commas of the refrigerator blossom in the breath of the living. The sentence pauses to reflect on Hollywood, helicopters in our neurons making crochets of thought and thimble, and then rushes into battle, howling like a face. The tale of the stars finishes by lifting a bronze goblet in a claw heavily veined with Viking blood. The silverware streams juicily through lumps of rice.

The forests work themselves into twists and turns of elaborate, bifurcated wood. The splendor of Norway manifests its rocky aggregations and breathes its granite into the breath of heaven. This can be a sunset folded and put in a drawer. This can be a piece of music. Mushrooms grinning in a parable of accommodation.

Hold this. Hold these words in your eyes. Let them come into your cave and cause pounds of music to unroll on the earthen floor. Bear teeth, man with the head of an antelope with blood squirting out of his nose. It’s dark. But here comes a light. A wick afloat in animal fat. Think of it as a body of words, as a paragraph, as a geoduck, as a pebbly beach. The big eyes of a seal. An agate searched by rain.