The Problem Of The Many

If the truth is bland, we verify it with salt. But is there such a thing? Does the truth exist? Does a truth exist? Are there truths made of taillights and tea? Are there any truths delivered by Amazon? Is your truth my truth? The truths that have emerged in my life have all been symptoms of a higher reality. I know this smacks of romance, but it's too late to embed it in a parenthesis where it can linger quietly and unobtrusively in pink. I'll have to leave it here where it can harmonize with the other guitars.

Does this mean we’re still friends? Good. I don’t want to rattle anyone’s cage. I just want to get a few points across. Here comes one now: pandemonium ensues. So what’s my point? My point is this: creosote is an exercise in resin.

The glockenspiel crushes the air with explosions of sound and the flags continually clacking in the air reveal the nonsense of borders.

Are we a dream? I believe we are. We are dreams dreamed by chemicals and ghosts.

The chemistry of ghosts may be sensed while progressing through the guts of a king.

That’s gross.

Don’t be gross.

My staff is lost among the stalagmites. I can’t help it if the rascals are hungry. My problem isn’t with birds. My problem concerns wax. Perception and mind have been arranged for moments like this. If I move fast enough, I can extend myself into fiction. This is where free will gets its willingness to be free. I can’t control the lighting, and I most certainly can’t control the darkness. But somewhere between extremes of turmoil and fat is a metaphorical dividend consisting of sparks and geysers. I have plans to imitate a helicopter.

This could be important if it weren’t already crammed with eyes. They look at me as if noise were important and snow was another way of pleading innocence in a world gone wrong. I arrive at a nipple and watch it chatter. Clearly, the club doesn’t want me. I will go elsewhere. I will find other examples. I will find a uselessly panoramic grievance and replace it with mushrooms.

England is another way to do push-ups. You begin with a bias and end with a bang. I do handsprings in my spare time and challenge bursitis with an unpredictable climate. I will serve other objectives when the new catalogue comes out. Until then, let the words spread into various shapes and frame their dreams with a speedometer and a little quartz.

It’s a rumor of thought when the exhortations rumble. Tendencies become anthologies. Roots clutter the kitchen. The maples are sharply outlined against the sky and the controls are lost among their own reflections. I have no intention to chain myself to a configuration. All I want to do is dance. The circuses are gone. But I feel a new stimulus stirring in the sweaters. Let’s fold our sheets together. The scenery has been altered but the power is still on. We can send out for more autobiography. The odor will not rob us. The bazaar will stop at nothing. We will humor the world with blimps.