There’s a private shine in my hammer. My indicative gaze cannot be explained by crawling. Our kitchen is full of mushrooms and pans. Some of the them are quite beautiful. They all shine. They all come into the foreground when the heat is on. I have, therefore, expanded my journey to include a lip or two. A tongue. An appetite for adventure. Mosquitos swarm around the pump. I compile shadows in order to describe the anatomy of the sky. I hope that the wine is good. We all have shadows. It’s why we’ve painted the rattles red and created a door for the crustaceans to come and go at their pleasure. Life enhances its roots by flowering into vines and blackberries. Entanglements. Thorns. But the true treasures are in the appendix of the guidebook. This is where we find trails that have barely been used. They lead to grottos and the touch of moonlight. It was never my intention to pilot a brush through your hair. Each time I hear the flap of a flag I grab a shovel and start to dig. It’s elementary to flex one’s muscles. I do what I can. You do what you’re good at. I’ve evolved mountain streams to startle the wandering gaze of grocery checkers. No one expects a wet arm to punch the air into parenthetical pathos. The coupons reflect the density of autumn. Everything happens among words. I try to create a way to enter another dimension. A new perspective. Let’s call it that. Embryonic sensations find full maturity in the drama of comparison. And sometimes they find expression in music. I suggest that the metamorphosis of insects fluctuates between the ability to swim and the opacity of bluebells. I brush my hair with a crow. It’s always respectable to find someone meditating. Emotions crash through my ribs seeking ecstasy. My eyes wander around a spoon. I fall to the ground and adapt to the eccentricities of my zipper later. The catalogue omits the secrets of mink, and for good reason: the rags of morning offer the wisdom of shoes. I grabbed the lotus and ran. The mailbox gravy was in bas-relief, but the meanings inherent in the nimbleness of the tongue argued for more space and less gravity. Specifically, chisels. We’ll get to them later, when the wood dries.
Monday, October 22, 2018
When The Wood Dries
There’s a private shine in my hammer. My indicative gaze cannot be explained by crawling. Our kitchen is full of mushrooms and pans. Some of the them are quite beautiful. They all shine. They all come into the foreground when the heat is on. I have, therefore, expanded my journey to include a lip or two. A tongue. An appetite for adventure. Mosquitos swarm around the pump. I compile shadows in order to describe the anatomy of the sky. I hope that the wine is good. We all have shadows. It’s why we’ve painted the rattles red and created a door for the crustaceans to come and go at their pleasure. Life enhances its roots by flowering into vines and blackberries. Entanglements. Thorns. But the true treasures are in the appendix of the guidebook. This is where we find trails that have barely been used. They lead to grottos and the touch of moonlight. It was never my intention to pilot a brush through your hair. Each time I hear the flap of a flag I grab a shovel and start to dig. It’s elementary to flex one’s muscles. I do what I can. You do what you’re good at. I’ve evolved mountain streams to startle the wandering gaze of grocery checkers. No one expects a wet arm to punch the air into parenthetical pathos. The coupons reflect the density of autumn. Everything happens among words. I try to create a way to enter another dimension. A new perspective. Let’s call it that. Embryonic sensations find full maturity in the drama of comparison. And sometimes they find expression in music. I suggest that the metamorphosis of insects fluctuates between the ability to swim and the opacity of bluebells. I brush my hair with a crow. It’s always respectable to find someone meditating. Emotions crash through my ribs seeking ecstasy. My eyes wander around a spoon. I fall to the ground and adapt to the eccentricities of my zipper later. The catalogue omits the secrets of mink, and for good reason: the rags of morning offer the wisdom of shoes. I grabbed the lotus and ran. The mailbox gravy was in bas-relief, but the meanings inherent in the nimbleness of the tongue argued for more space and less gravity. Specifically, chisels. We’ll get to them later, when the wood dries.
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