Thursday, January 10, 2019

The Scratch Of Coincidence

The bickering harness does its machinery into words. It’s splendid to be interested in hanging out. Polynesian nerve circled by agates. A running frog suggests elephants in a manner that is suitable to our bulbs. I want some mountain thunder to go with my gaze.
And then it happens: hammers. Nails. Screws. The assembly of froth. This is what I like about initiation. It starts things. It ends things. It extends things. It floats. It stirs. It begs.
Please lend me your eyes. Your interest. Your attention. Your milk and cookies. Your grip and poise and amiability.
The pearl manure has made its emotion apparent to all the conjunctions. It emboldens the cloud magnets, which hold the garden together, and coordinates the sympathies gurgling our skidoodle. My distress is a moiré of celestial fleece and ribaldry. The effulgent marble is bullish with tumult, and the crows are challenged by the contrast. The wind pillow gets up and leaves.
I’m looking for the new world and a palace in the sun. I’m looking for yardarms and ties and a big red caboose.
I like to eat and rent pebbles. Radar is a topic of taste, a languid radiation tale. Oxygen provides a biography for my finger, which is but a ragged baton of geometry. Nevertheless, my fingers are supple, taken as a whole, and when my arm is outstretched to you and my hand is open, what we have is a murmur of words at the edge of reality, the rumble of alternating currents, the ascension of eyes, the personification of dice.
The pain in my right shoulder continues as a phenomenon of meaning. Grenadine sticks to my emotion. My legs are sage and chickens. I have an orthogonal bullish denial that opens like a gallant Sunday and finally accepts the rotundity of the planet. I like Falstaff. Who doesn’t? Everything turns around when the grain hums with becoming whatever it’s destined to become. There is more to genetics than genetics. There is sometimes a frontier, and a curious little weight, the density of something that can’t quite be defined, certainly not as a seesaw or parade float, and a garden to tend to, and a soul to tend to, and eyes opening to the first light of day.
I didn’t choose to come into existence. I was brought into existence. I was set afloat on a sea of words. I grew oceanic. I evolved a taste for strolling, pointing to the arches of wind-eroded sandstone and filling books with description. This makes inflation far more respectable than the thermometer I once saw on the wall of a garage in Hawaii, screaming its temperatures from a blowtorch. I report from the arena dig. Tomorrow is the moiré of today’s algebra, a quantum amalgamation rippling up and down the vertebral column of an éclair.
If you ask me, life is all about art. But what does that mean? I don’t know what it means. But I like art. Art is to life what life is to patio furniture. Not an excuse to sit down so much as a rejection of gravity, a gospel gleaned from the labor of sharecroppers and used like a blanket to warm the coldness of the heart.
So I’ll just go ahead and say it: ablution. All memories are stories we tell ourselves. The sun sponge has genitals, yes, but so do the poplars trembling in the breeze. I have no memory of my experiments. I just remember the crows, how they landed, how they flew away, how they perched on telephone wires, and spoke among themselves, the great councils of birds tinged with the scratch of coincidence.

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