Thus Begins The Tarpaulin Day

Faith engineers clouds. Splash hears an onion. The western climate is a god. The tamarind tends to its tendrils and thus begins the tarpaulin day.

Monday’s raw glass clinks against the evidence. It’s dramatic shaving a hook, but also a little soapy. The coupon edges toward the jump and finds a pocket of rope. The polar rake is talking to a funeral pyre. Twist this into a gulf of Sunday and I will mint a new spatula.

The new pan is already a big hit. Plastic ravishes the bicycle, which rattles with prayer. Phenomena engulf the expansibility of the notebook. Saturday’s bones are Sunday’s lungs. It’s another King Moiré Thursday on Mars and the floats are passing by. Princess Di waves to the dead.

I wash my face in buttons. Time is a molecular caress. The planetarium is our jump room. We find ourselves by creating facsimiles of California. The point has a radius fork, diamond teeth in a plaster wall. All of us flickered when the magic became eager. It was shaken by revelation and crackled like moon shadows as it was folded and put in the suitcase. Magic isn’t always what you believe it to be. There are steps involved, and chewing and tilting to the side. Euclid secluded in books. Nothing denies the daughters of the staircase. This is where the butter finds its full force.

I know. You thought it was jam, right? Memory keeps its needles in the recesses between the spectra of our everyday lives. Prickly guts cause division to imitate the curls of evolution. I belong to the fence. The mat kicks keenly, but the welcome never grows thin. Its mirrors urge reflection. Its charter promotes elk.

My career in poetry appears to me as a fever dream. My bones are still a memory of that time I drifted down the Danube. The tibia’s scarlet temperament rises into touch where it assumes a greeting in the intimacy of skin. Asian designs walk around in metal. The emulsion is a fugitive corollary. It’s apricot roast material, a science bullet tiger, a watermark’s buckled harness. I climb through the thorny season of your eyes. I don’t build bonfires only to deny them. I build bonfires to warm the crustaceans and all the contagions possible in a sphere of words.

When we talk of engineering, we attempt to design a better world. Clothes like wasps, huge nerves folded into walking, each step a potential rattlesnake, flying walruses, polar coronations. Bears stirred into personhood.

The eccentric weight of the bandage on my toe is bulbs to my cartilage. The thin distress of twirling an imaginary baton results in unlocking its inner appeal. Glue loops for a pink candle. The foggy corners of a coconut spring. The fragrance of lavender cut into slivers of wisdom. It makes me want to mourn the death of my shoe.

I begin every day in the same blood and mucous and begin looking immediately for metaphors to adorn the bleakness of stimulation.

Stimulation assumes a form of lyrical abstraction until it reaches the image sensors at the edge of our breath and becomes a space for private reflection. It’s just a little like being on the shoulder of the highway instead of behind the wheel of a jaguar when little else makes sense except glitter.

The tender caliber of the hummingbird starts the knives of the puddle. Chestnuts and snowballs make a mosaic out of the accordion afternoon. The cathedral rests in its stone. We prop the ocean up with desks. The sensuality of reverie is apparent in its agility. The textures dispel the mysteries of the elevator. Cubes with kinetic holes crash through the bingo game causing a stampede to the door. This leaves a space for the poem to sit down and mean something. What, I don’t know. It just steams and crackles. Balloons pop. French ochre profits mightily from black, and there’s nothing obscure about energy. It’s all rails and gravel and the gospel of iron. Flux, horses, and the flap of tarpaulin.