The Sparkle Of Catastrophe

The lyrical procession of the lake has turned bookish. Everyone looks for solace in frangipani. I devise meanings literally. I put them on paper. I give them a geography. And a bloodstream. The cotton mind scratches at the personal trying to crack despair into an easily applied deodorant. A furrow of knee buttons lounges in emerald. If I insinuate the clay of autumn it’s only to honor the harmonies of dusk.

My telescope has asked for a point. Is there a point? A point to anything? I crawl through my biology seeking upheaval. Broken eggs sizzle in the pan. I scratch my leg and quickly meditate. I get the catalog to the building of DNA molecules and make a poem that likes to make friends with people. Garrulity can be a good quality in a trailer park. Put out a flag. Thicken your words with bathtub caulking. Put some bacteria in the shade and watch it make coffee.

The surface of the injury is erratic, but it makes a nice sequoia. A spoon pullulating with hawks dangles its own circus. These are what I like to call images. The faucet eats its own escape. But the biggest hallucination is a tissue reserved for stretching. A little exaggeration now and then is good for the icicles. I fold and unfold the twang. Dolly Parton comes out to sing. I can imitate a cloud of steam if I’m supplied with friends and reality. Otherwise, I believe that most religions are boardwalks for gazing into the distance, and that communication with an octopus is possible when there aren’t any words around to interrupt the flow of silence.

The spiritual root of the water pump is in its exaltation, its shape and prologue. The wart washed up and rode the wagon. We imposed the elegance of tea on one another. It attracted some attention, but the crowd was absorbed in the delirium of a hammer. The bug’s reluctance to strain against the momentum of this sentence was unanticipated, but propellers continued to churn the water and the sentence moved forward into deeper waters. The crew fell silent. And here we are now, filling abstractions with muffins and butter.

The beauty of the elephant is quite emphatic. We could hear a lot of sexual abandon occurring in the tent below. We were alert to the gossip book, which must’ve weighed a ton. We explored an octagonal thing. We tried to identify it using a stethoscope and feather. We wrapped the thumb as well. And yet nothing emerged to excite our education. We continued our incantation. It was obvious that the flapping of birds would eventually lead to an epiphany. We bent to hear it in the ground. The planet whispered “unearth me.”

What did that mean?

Friendliness can be added later. Meanwhile, we weigh our thoughts and find them still seeking answers, still gathering evidence, still digging and brushing off little bits of coincidence. Evening is a groove of contexture. The thermostat is substantive but a trifle oligarchic. The fabric of thought is woven by words. Nothing luxuriates in cotton. We need silk. We need blueprints and towels. What does spit mean? I’m bewildered. I squirm in my chair and arrive at the realization that language is inherently subversive and can never properly mimic the sparkle of catastrophe. I can’t hit a ball if nobody throws it. This dimension is mutating. I can feel it. The hyacinths are in bloom and the ignition growls like a wildcat. Guzzle a metaphor. My name is Milton Sneeze and I endorse this message.