The Flutter Of Invisible Entities

I want the Christmas trimming to drive into Easter carrying a load of dirt. If dirt isn’t prominent in this sentence, then it must be a moon. I feel the flutter of invisible entities. The fairy kingdom dancing around the big toe of my left foot. This is the one with the scab thrashing around like a shoe polish. I’m going to create a winter oil that whistles and a stubbornly slow desire that becomes monumental in its explanations. We all try to convince the world that our desires are worthy and require satisfaction. Much of life tumbles into these excesses. The quintessence of an abandoned fence is the scuff of the real on the dusty entrails of a derelict explosion. And guess what? It proves precisely nothing. Except that quarks are elementary particles and a fundamental constituent of matter, such as barley, or the cornfields of Iowa.

The kitchen sink tracks the night. It’s an old story told by an emissary from the back of the bus. The foliage in the bathtub rocks back and forth in maniacal nudity. The cathedral lights the world with stained glass and allegory. We open a drawer in which to place folds of candlelight. I’m going to see if the undertaker is still alive.

The novel focuses on the substance of the wall. I think the poultry is humming. Can you hear it? It sounds like chickenpox. I dig the redness of the magnet, the fresh laziness of the snowball. The jelly provides consciousness and the fire gives us personality. You can’t go wrong hemming a paragraph with muscle. The abdominals are peripheral to the way I might hug you. It’s how I lift things. Think things. Muscles like doing cartwheels. It’s more fully evident in the cold. I like to imitate snow. The power of it is in its profound delicacy. The way it covers the limestone formations of the desert and floats in our eyes is nothing less than sanguine.

The house is a sleeping disaster. The blue windshield adds a twist of stoicism. It’s nice, but the reptiles are agitated, and the reservoir is dry. Stoicism can only go so far. This is why we need flint. We need to sharpen our chisels. We need to carve some shapes out of the air. Make the invisible visible. The prohibitions are troubling. Who needs them? There’s always some discord in seeing a benevolent pope wave his hand over the crowds at Vatican City. The character of tomorrow clatters into being, bringing amusement parks and rides. The ghost of Marie Laurencin juggles spheres of color in a corner of the living room. None of us resort to abstraction at times like this. The mood is too wonderful to ruin with horoscopes and long division. We just sit back and signal one another with winks and nods.

The mimosa displays its knowledge of summer. We walk the lava through the cathedral singing Neil Young songs. The search for ocher offers us its own brand of speculation. Even the telescopes are paper. The carpenter has abandoned the kite and places the sauerkraut in the wind where it is eaten by daylight. The kite, meanwhile, mutates into a Gila monster.

I embrace the silence of granite. My trajectory topples the muffin. I never fully understood the Futurists. The carrot is a web of equations. But is the bull of oblivion a chasm in the wall, or a peacock strutting across my tongue like a planet? Is it sometimes emptier to say something when nothing needs to be said, or is it the overpowering fragrance of lavender that finally acquits us of our inarticulate demands? I just place the nouns where they’re most needed and hope for the best.