Calliope Snow

Experience agrees to its journey, the pencil making marks on plywood. Steam from this morning’s kettle. Grammar in a canoe, the paddles notwithstanding. These are the campaign funds, not the greenhouse. I have language to do and a coconut to throw. The general point is clear: empirical categories dissolve by themselves, and we’re left with a yearning, a maze of footnotes and an elastic volume of air. There is nothing for the recognitions but larch. A scab for the theocracy of ripples, a quadrilateral mold returning in a slow idea of seals. And a moon pinned to my foot like an excerpt of dust and rock.

I turn to reach the conversation before it collapses into slate and the felons issue the usual pontoons. Apparitions seem to get everything wrong. We all need to confront reality, but where is it, where does it make the feather speed through itself? Where does it make the eyes of the peacock sparkle and the coolness under the bridge power the voyage in the violin case? It’s vague to denim a naked leg, but the pleasantries are rooted in potash, which gives the sentence time to ferment a little jaywalking, a listless purification among whose many merits are poise and translucence.

I unrolled some connectedness and the drawing became a hive for lines and cells and drowsy harmonies. The vibration of a thousand tiny wings make honey and a nebula tenable as a stick of coffee. Imagine a pet, a malarkey or a praying mantis. Think of something ovoid, a basement bonfire thematic as a wind instrument, or the people next door disinfecting a vampire. Consider propulsion nearest the spine, then spill it. It can only make things bigger, more like feeling than feet. I bought a climb to the top of a mountain and flashed my kazoo to the wind.

I smear the paint I held so long in the can it became vital. I watched as it slid into oscillation, gurgling glockenspiels like a smock. I now have everything I need to confront the chrome of reality. I sparrow it over the moss, plunge an insoluble sashay into anguish, and feather a pick with cypress.

Technicolor sepals indicate we’re the nimble shadow of a giant grape. I gape at the desk and marry an air of exhaustion to a strain of windchimes. This creates ramification, which is always good for a proverb, logic squashed with a heavy plant.

This is a texture that our twigs invite to candy. I express this by nerve and thumb. My exchange is mustard but my sternum curls naturally around an earphone. Spin the snow and listen to it smell. I feel life happening in the vermilion, the audacity of sprouts in a ligature of orange.