Monday, January 7, 2019


Welcome to the world of syntax. Here we will see words as they truly exist, side by side, fomenting discord, reaching into heaven for consolation and mustard. Think of them as feathers that cohere into a wing. Two wings. A seagull. A hummingbird. A murder of crows.
Let’s go digging for freight at the border. The painting of emigration expresses the echoes and scenes of passage that any testimony will tell you is a tooth of torment.  A similar moment of night stirs among my dollars. I love the planetarium grounds. The attic sailing through my gum.
Who doesn’t want to run away from their sadness? Bring a notebook. Hang out in an effulgent can. The grassland is an emissary to our bizarre bazaar of operatic squalor. This is my blissful axle rice. This is a swarm of mouths at play in my straw.
The paint got mixed up in the aftermath. Fortunately, the honey stick is still tenable. The new abyss awaits us in the street. We break the state brighteners and make them into hats. Crisp, dry, articles of faith emanating whispers of concertina yeast.  Ecstasy offers the woman a scuffle of indigo guffaws. She walks away mumbling the smooth bones of a dead song.
These are the aftereffects of digging up lightning and slathering it with butter. A languorous life climbing into violins. The tremble of coffee at the embassy. A lazy whirlwind. A nerve barometer masticating charcoal.
What’s the first thing to come into your mind in the morning? I mean, besides suicide. Me, I can’t help but think of pine, the cypress of Big Sur, the islands off the coast of Ireland, Great Blasket, Clare Island and Knockmore Mountain, Inishmore, Skellig Michael, Rathlin Island, and its colony of seabirds, puffins, gannets, razorbills, guillemots, kittiwakes, fulmars, swooping, diving, swirling, plummeting vertically on shoals of fish.
I hear a border soaking in tables and support the bitter swarm of windows smeared with the burning gaze of a thousand silent muzzles. I hear the shadows calling from a field of streams. I hear the radical tea of prayer, the gentle maneuvering of yesterday’s food. And I throw a peach at the wall.
The ceiling propagates a sense of belonging. The walls create a huge pill fence. The chameleon undertakes kite flying. A vigorous dramatic frost gets my solitary attention. And I search for the moral, the solution to enrichment, the Parisian agates healing the brain of the odor in the corner, the one with the blue trinkets, the bracelet of bones, little bones, bird bones, and the worms outside stirring in the dirt, what do they apprehend, what do their nerves allow into their being, what baptisms, what great sincerities, what biochemistry informs them of rain, of structure, of war and religion?
The triggers become chamomile. I slide under the palm tree stars and dream of water. Evening hammers the ashes of Cairo. Lightning has the substantive weight of an eyelid. I sullenly get dressed in the universe and put on a hat that drips hills and moratoriums. The brim is feathers. The crown is sloppy, but infuriating in a way that makes me glad to be less specific. I will leave you with this bit of advice: height isn’t important. What’s important is speculation, a wild, random trust in thermometers. Syntax is always an experiment, the glazed ovation of incidental strawberries ripened in the spin of abstraction. 

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