Grog

I meet my sweet notebook wearing an almond scarf log. One’s habiliments are critical to the writing process, although I recommend nudity for the most stunning results. Words like it when I’m nude. Are words nude? Good question.

I’m the king whose singular claw has a compelling stab at grasping the sky and making dimes of water fall out of it. I understand it to go in combing a wild stratosphere of hair. Thursday’s hibiscus is a ripple of resonance, a flambé of hip butter. I move to develop more fees.

The ocean is a stew of groaning passage. The golden law of speed is an ice clock bursting out of time. The canary recounts his gobble.

Wait: do canaries gobble?

This one does. I can use it to calculate the sweating alpine of my lungs as I climb into beauty.

This is the kite’s side of the region, the aurora under a fir tree. If I say that I can bend the truth the truth will make a gun out of a bar of soap and point it at H.G. Wells. Think of this paragraph as a time machine. Or a mug of beautiful rocks. We call this poetical because it snaps into a place like a rubber band. It thickens like chowder. It summons a prophesy.

Night glitters in its empire. The horses jingle in their bells. You can masturbate almost anywhere. But try to be discreet.

All it takes is a puff or two to blow the little hairs off of the computer screen.

Nothing is really empty. Not even nothingness is empty. This is what makes Mallarmé so unpredictable. Splendor, glory, magnificence and softball.

There’s a loud whack and the ball bounces to left field where it is caught by a pterodactyl and carried to the end of this sentence and dropped. I pick it up and hear a giant monotony walking around inside of it. There’s a cure for that as well. But it must be smeared into the air with drums. Kettledrums. Talking drums. Bougarabou. Jazz brushes with red rubber handles.

Rubber bands didn’t exist during the time of the Roman Empire. Rubber was discovered by the Olmecs who used it in their ballgames. The Mesoamerican ballgame was similar to racquetball. Me, I’m not much into sports. I prefer sitting in armchairs having conversations with myself. Wondering what thought is. And how to get rid of it.

Coffee sits in my brain knitting a rhinoceros. I go up drinking and come down netting thought. I say hi to the dagger tree and taste the Renaissance in parcels of air.

Paper head pool swarming with tar chickens. Root shirt with bonfire buttons. Bees reflected in the wheelhouse of my grommet viola. I’m telling you, Aerosmith is June.

This time what I want is completely mail. Letters from the gentry. Turntable diamonds.

Sparrows surround the ceiling injury. The elevator is distant that lifts my smile into tennis. The cynical redness of my reasons is all I have to greet the oleomargarine in your monkeyshines. But I can always moor my words in dirt. The monastery of chaos is surrounded by it. Here comes the buttermilk to this Capernaum of a raspberry. It will open your biology to all sorts of lettuce.

The suitcase on my hip is full of bees, a hollow, archaic material that feels palpable as a tonsil in a loose robe of mucous. A sullen sea flies through my brain dropping heavy arena stars. I toss another jewel into the quantum soup I made yesterday while studying the amphibians in your eyes. It explodes into grog.

Grenadine adds propulsion. Sticks of meaning carry me forward. A melee of sugar reveals the shiver of camaraderie. The grog has a northern shine and the clock wags its glass, the story of pearls behind my knee is a species of cognition, a distant matter for the gallantry of the moment. If you look closely at a Viking ship you will immediately notice the magnitude of grace in the sweep of its lines. This might be used as an example of thought. The brain alone is a phenomenal organ. And yet 100 billion neurons are not enough to get the world to stop burning up.

It takes a typhoon crashing through Hong Kong. The grandeur of the void, each of us throwing confetti into the stars.