A Good Hotel And A Pair Of Dry Socks

Wrinkles explain the history of a face. They tell a tale of unappeased ambitions, weary compromise and popped bubbles of glistening illusion. But most of the time wrinkles just sit on your face and simmer and boil. They make you look soulful, weather-beaten, life-beaten, existence-beaten, hammered by ordeal but still standing, heart beating, eyes seeing through all the lies and prevarications hurled at you like curtains, blankets, wooly obfuscations. You get a face like Geronimo or Abraham Lincoln. This is good if you’re male, not so good if you’re female. If you’re female, wrinkles aren’t particularly a welcome feature, but they can give you a certain regal aura if you don’t fight them too hard with makeup and denial. Denial generally doesn’t do anyone any good, especially denial. Denial was born for better things than denial. The true impulse of denial is acceptance. It’s just slow to get around to it.

Human anatomy begins at home. It begins at birth. Birth and home aren’t necessarily synonymous, but they are in this case, because I’m imagining home as a planet with clouds and birds, and blood and mucus. Mucus is the music of the nose. But if you’re going to describe my nose, please soften some adjectives first and apply a little science. There are sinuses to consider, and density. Density matters. Density throws a punch.

I ooze my veins forward to explain the movement of blood and illustrate the distance of milk. It helps me relax to think about sewing. I walk into a religious crack and talk to the ghosts using a mouth of rubber and a grammar like bees.

And suddenly another paragraph wants your attention. The fish are in full horizontal swing. The comb keeps groping for my hair. I suppose the thing to do is to let things be what they want to be and leave the rest to the distillery. I will leave the soft bark for later analysis. The mud languishes in its own essence compelling the stepladder to step forward and hurry into play. There’s a drug that expands into odor and an odor that expands into steam. It may be understood as the consequence of an immense kitchen, and a mouth tossing itself into words.

What is most difficult in language is to render the tempo of its metabolism. There lurks beneath its decorum an animal thrashing in its cage. Long, difficult, hard, dangerous thoughts.

Yippee! I just discovered water. It was masquerading as a cushion.

 I tease people by forgetting they’re people. I try to convince them they’re eyebrows. But the joke is on me. I’m the eyebrow. I’m all eyebrows. But a little of me is also fast food. I may look like a diving board but inside is a man with arms and legs and enough authority to carry this procession to the end of the sentence where it will leap into cotton and become hair.

The front door portfolio is fused to a space held in reserve by a perception. Like most perceptions, this perception seeks the gold of paradise. It’s better to be awake than asleep when the generous reciprocity of the world awaits your basket of clouds. Sleep swallows itself while stirring in the bed. The harmonies of notoriety are not what they seem. Fame is a brocade that slams the door on anonymity. Never take anonymity for granted. Anonymity isn’t anonymous for nothing. For each and every embryo there’s an equal amount of chrome adjusting to the rigors of undersea exploration.

Is that what this is about? Beer?

Some of us prefer other beverages. I use the luminous puff moo to escape the spatial algebra of soccer. The tugboat drifts in the orange light of sunset. The hill across the bay translates the clouds as a Russian novel. Everyone insinuates knobs.

Hard to believe, but I noticed there’s dust on the hairdryer. Has it been that long since we’ve used it? Apparently, I could also use a haircut. But is this what is meant by testimony? Am I a fool? Or just another kangaroo?

The imagination will make its prison explode. Whose prison? We know whose prison. The prison of ownership and string. The prison of anguish and paint.

Drop the property on the ground where it belongs. Write a story about face-lifts. Deform everything. The wizard’s fanged envelope will arrive in the mail and offer a pretty bug. Saddle the bug. Ride to Paris. Enter Paris. Smile and wave. The mind is wild for resolution. A good hotel and a pair of dry socks.