The Helium Of The Absurd

Pornographic cows dance on a pinhead. It’s always a little sad to go live in the woods alone. I’m haunted by a thriftless multiplicity of wallpaper roses. I run to the moon and back. Who needs airplanes when you’ve got verisimilitude? I pay little attention to mold. What is it that flowers by your pumpkin? I spend most of my time itching, scratching, clearing my throat, and blowing my nose. This is how our biology speaks to us.

An apparition of death wades into my life pulsing with insects. I try to find a little peace within myself. The kerosene is drawn up through the wick by capillary action. Revolution boils in the heart of a tiger. The world walks into my head and sits down.

What do you want? I want peace. I’m all hung up and I don’t know why. I’ve got a notebook teeming with imaginary solutions. But its alternatives are dysfunctional and indistinct. Sensory nerves, motor nerves, afferent nerves, efferent nerves. Oh, to be an armchair clamp! A canvas splashed with equations. Cézanne peppered with the vapor of language.

My nose is in a state of chronic irritation. There’s always something. If it’s not wildfire smoke it’s a flat tire. What can I do with this can of automobile paint? I’m going inside and making like I don’t exist. No problem can affect me if I don’t give it tortillas and maidenhood.

I’ve tried assembling a little reality with rags and chemistry. And now a body of water clanks around in chains of imaginary fish.

I see your eyes sifting all the reasons as to why it’s important to learn how to draw.

The sun is still learning to shine. Does time truly exist? Or is it more like a feather crashing on the sand? This is proof that nudity exists. No society is so bad, so maladapted, so poorly guided that you can’t go around naked occasionally spilling poetry on people.

Welcome to the Theatre of Benevolent Chairs.

Why is there a giraffe on your shoulder?

There are tigers in my breath. We all need to escape ourselves. Even my scrotum itches. I sit by the side of the road sobbing. Let’s create birds together. Let’s create a sound around drunken Germans. Should I just come out and say it? The sawdust flower is red. It’s important to share your passions with others. Farming is one possibility. I remember my father driving to Denver with a crow in the backseat. Later, when I was an adult, the smell of the garage confused me. What made it smell that way? Was it grime? Gardening tools? Sacks of fertilizer? An armadillo with a pink nose sipping coffee and belching and listening to Bob Dylan?

I was raised in a greenhouse on Titan. When I was born eight pounds of language slid out of my mouth. Schools of tuna repeated this miracle underwater. This is why God created sleep.

Thinking is a strange activity. It’s like sipping a luminous beverage in somebody’s basement and hearing someone cough in another room. I’ve attached a piece of gravity to my lip. This will make everything a little quieter when I begin to rub some words together to create a fire. I will answer all of your questions with a powdered donut and get up and walk back into the sky.

I don’t suffer indignities well. But when I saw my clothes running down the street without me in them, I decided to take action and inflate myself with the helium of the absurd. And floated to the ceiling on a raft of trembling sound.