Morning Thunder

The machine is stars. I’m the master of sauce. This allows me to polarize anything dopey. I doodle the moon and budget the scaffold with insect bronze. The tympanum radiates Iran. I’m the hero of a play about ambivalence. I don’t know how to feel about mannequins. I exhale the relief of bombast. The rascals of tarter are therefore connubial in the prose I have about a neck. The personality of a gorilla feels good when I sip from the cup of misanthropy. Where am I headed with this? I’m a barbarian. There are no stars with which to make you a comedy of light. I can wear socks. I can be particular. Hear me simulate an autograph. The month is distinct in its abstractions. I endure the gloves. Ochre diving into itself for the sake of the drawing. I fidget. I’m unfettered. These words work. I can see the orchard. I can see the fruit. I can smell the rot. I can turn bronze in the light of a mighty sun. I can put powder on my neck and whistle at the fighting of candy. The sentence is spatial when it’s special. The sentence is special when it’s spatial. But the sentence is rarely wide as it is long when the details gather in mirrors. My sense is enamel. Corot occurs to me. His skies are sharply determined by shouts of yellow and the power of deliverance. I meet a proposal on the road and shake its spit. The spars are covered in snow. Yes, this is trying to be subversive. It’s a bit like flying a drone over the flooding in Nebraska this spring. Each word generates a garden. The contraption surges into tables knocking over vases and becoming pumpkins. I long to see you. To touch you. To know you. To carve a sea out of a talk we have. To let the bugs crawl over us. The stems to rise and blossom into universes of color and shape. My belt buckle is loud but the belt is leather and talks of nothing but weather. I admonish nothing. Why would I? The parlor is remembered with its guns and piano. The TV expects us to watch it. Images blaze in the demitasse. The heart pumps cinnamon around a tricky conceit of pharmaceutical art. Now I can see you. Be you. And I am thunder.