The wind has something to teach me about me. It helps me to understand oil. Dry kite radar. I get dressed in distress like a tale about poultry. Sinking knots embalmed in paint. Abstract expressionist sneezes carried into quicker echoes of awkward materialism.
And why? Why are burdens necessary?
Why is pain necessary?
Sullen chestnut rowing. Undecided flair swarming with plumage. Metal theatre. I eat to live in exultation of a field of wheat. And this confirms the prickles of dance I sometimes feel in the halls of photography.
The captain’s sad sumptuous gear is a testament to exile.
Arizona walks by carrying its canyons in a basket of reverie. It has the weight of snow on a night of silhouettes and legends. Inflated oceans big as hope and just as visceral as food. I see a set of teeth pass against a storm and reflect on the burlesque of circumference. Pendulum glasses for the diving board. Vagaries for our physics.
Did I hear Raymond Roussel enter the room?
It is the drama of the bear in the bell tower. The texture of a noble idea. The weight of the unknown in a whisper of ice. A flood of hard glass in a skein of toes.
Why does the universe exist?
Gothic angels lend us the crime of desire. Hot sapphire the warm flexibility of wax.
The heating of the grotto wheel is trees ahead of autumn. It opens to the ash of nothing and then stuns the sediment with a career of snow.
Heaven is a knowledge we undertake later in life. Early in life, heaven is everywhere. Later in life, heaven is an animal blinking confusedly in a mailbox. It’s a warm coat in a winter storm.
I approve of the funny weariness I’ve become. The herd makes its way toward the shore in the light of the coffeehouse. A shaman enters the cave. Heat moves the ebony wheels of a fierce consonant. The consonant squeezes a vowel and a bear lumbers by. A rattle calls for resilience. Texture assumes the dimensions of sight. This is natural. We have built indulgences based on nothing but stucco.
We’re not empty. Not at all. We’re just gliding. It began with a radio and ended with a gamble. The spectrum widened, and we went in. Even the sidewalk held still. Nothing is so impersonal that it doesn’t require nipples at some point. Embrace it. Embrace the ambiguities. They need our certainty. Our expansive definitions. Which are cast to the wind. And return to the hermitage heaving with charming syncopations.
Distortions. Mutations. Limps.
The buttermilk is wearing alpine. We elect more shadows to cast on the wall. It doesn’t help much. I move the oysters in my notebook. The king rides by on a horse made of lightning. This is what writing is, what it’s been along. A compensation for my lack of math, certainly, but also a fence in the fog claiming to contain what it doesn’t understand.