Dance Of The Arctic Surf Clams

There’s a power in me that drools with the meat of a thousand televisions. A fluttered comb is increasingly abrupt. I cry to plaster the wall with Corot. The stroll is a box in a palace of air. Fire is sheer grapefruit. And then it turns chrome and shapes our emotions into kilohertz. I’m engorged with shoals. The seashore has no glue. I’m hanging from my brain blooming words like a grape. The moon secretes its milk on our toys and the cotton grows into our houses on hangers.

The conversation compels a somber sweep of the titular. Longshoremen on the deck of December streaking the air with mutant bronze hurry to complete the multiplicity of forms before they dissolve into windshields. This is all about pretext, the rage for teakettle resonance and the pressures of steam, which restores the basic principle of this sentence as it glides into juxtaposition and jostles a wisteria. I need a reason to erect a self-less infinity on the runway runt. The whistle is mammoth. I step into rapport with a shadow, which is the one always following, or a step ahead, intriguing as a lion asleep on the savannah.

The coherence penumbra quacks like a landscape. This tendency talks like water. If a mode is strangled the defense rests on a tangential escalator dreaming of light. I feel erratic. A haul of crab clatters on the dock. Across the street, a perception tastes of buckwheat. Structure works by recurrence. I tumble into space convulsing with time. Nothingness inspires combustibility in an electrician’s hat. Every time I put a word down on paper there’s an anticipation of reconciliation with the urgencies of existence, Arctic surf clams opening to the ontology of the not-yet, the sweaty T-shirt experiment this summer in Nashville, and the show about to begin in the hibachi.

This is key to understanding the splash of words in a necklace of hills. A faucet understands the swamp. The theory of numbers misses the point and becomes a swarm of chalk. The grace of the barometer whispers absence in the light of a vast temperature. These are my thoughts concerning fission. Fusion is included in the brochure, but it only serves to highlight better the specific sense I have of good-byes exchanged at the airport, and the underlying integrity of the beatific vision we all share, even as we part and go our separate ways, we are bound by the internal values of our tribe and the ongoing narrative of the universe. This isn’t fusion so much as gab, the unconscious bubbling out of the soil in which metaphysics is rooted. I feel flagrant as a raspberry. Even the honey makes a claim for better transparency. The dream is to one day achieve Welsh and keep the party rocking till the break of dawn.

Metal sparrows flash neon in confirmation of our powerful weakness. This vaccine, this wood, this old truck bouncing on a dirt road somewhere in Africa.