Story Pole

I’m clumsy beneath the pronouns, buckled and carried by water to the sinecure maintained in structure to this cupboard, this reverie pushed into words. This subjunctive amble, this penumbra, this savor. It folds into fish by the trees. I like to extend the grammar until it permeates the books I want to write someday. This is brushes in the drawer to the languor spinning in my hand. Age is a car whose roam indulges appraisal, and I concur in bubbles.

We boil to see the garden shine. A sparkling cartwheel expands my sense of wicker. The glider is more personal. It dwarfs the moisture with its altitude and veer. Even the words shriek with the black breath of redemption, which is gold at its core.

I wander in amber along the examples provided to support the integrity of sand. Circles swallow the pi by the hairy circumference. Heft is a function of pullulation. The heart in your hand is baffling, but searched.

There’s some sleep beyond the disparagement, somewhere along the coast of France. I ache around my pickle. The tongue turns it into words. The words turn it into a personality. They’re what makes pink gargle its own form as a balloon, or gargoyle.

I don’t know what to do about reality. The trouble is sexual. It sits in the balcony, anchoring hope in a tumble of breasts. The sky trickles down to the horizon dragging stars and cupping the smell of battle in a hawk’s gizzard. Speculation bumps our fence and is exercised in singing while the sorcerers chew it into dream.

The smell of the highway supports the trajectory of the unknown. I pull a hammer behind me expecting nails at any minute. The night crawls into the shadow of a mountain. The granite is marbled with iron. Bees propose alternatives to radar. Eyes hover plains of incalculable thought at the periphery of signification. Words fall from my breath until they hit the paper and turn windmills of Leibnizian logic into idealized death-masks, shark tooth stalactites, wheelbarrows, and a dog pound in Barcelona. The tacit is often a vortex from which we derive precious oils and malapropisms. Probes are improvised in supernatural dyes. The T-shirts are completely undomesticated, unlike our shoes, which are as tame as goiters in a family of seven and make squeaky noises at the grocery store after the floor has been freshly waxed.

The ratatouille is dramatically seductive but no one knows why gravity tastes like smoked gouda. Maybe if we jump up and down an answer will arrive in a golden carriage exempt from drizzle.

This could be a sentence if it wasn’t already soaked in telepathy, like the interstice over there singing with closed lips.  

The cold finds itself crawling over the ground in the morning. It’s followed by fog. It gets dressed in a river and attends to a forest of birch and cedar. The horses graze by a swamp. The carpenter stands on a carpet twisting his body into pretzels of butt joint and stud. Does this mean that art is capable of serving other aims in the abstract, or that an idea of reflexivity is secured by large wooden pegs at the juncture of a mode and a stepladder?

All the windows are enigmatic on Wednesday. But the door is always eerie. You open it with your eyes. Your breath. And the buzzer that creates it.