Singing In Silence

Every injury has a moment in which to swallow an egg of knowledge and create a sound for the silence of a shoe, the backdrop of a snowflake, the plumage of a duck, and make it rock, make it rattle, make it talk. A scarf weighs the light and subtlety aspires to the solidity of the hammer. I feel strangely detached from everything chained to simulation. Artifice steals our rope, our ribbon, our presence. The fullness of our wheels, the portent of our steam. The kettle whistles making a grapefruit of the kitchen. I’ve got rubies and gold but none of it sticks to the religion I’m trying to describe with a little glue, a few feathers and a block of stone.

Not to worry: there’s a theater in my skin and a dragon in the garage. Being is all about antifreeze, the eye of the beholder, the crack in the truth of moonlight. Currents of science fiction blossom at the periphery. The only real remedy for distance is the trajectory of remorse, which goes to Borneo and back, bubbling along like a hideous sweater with Darth Vader on it.

Conflagrations at sea. A foundry swallowing men at dawn. These are the things that make sense of a convulsion, that make an assembly of fully mature adults get up and applaud. Think of it as a healthful rupture, a weave, a wave, a yolk in the shamrock of acceptance.

I always get lost looking for a reason, a logic, a rationale for the revelatory gold of Byzantium. It’s always swampy where our suggestions are magnified by crystals and magic. It’s not easy finding burlap when the cuts are sharp and the fabric is fully spread. There are all these holes to consider, little tears and colors assembled in a casual glide through our vowels, qualities of almond in consonants like tongs.

A troika is loaded with pineapples and salt sprinkled near the hill of a sleeping giant. There’s a soft blue light sleeping in a hard blue rock and a history written by footprint in the ooze by the side of the river. A plough splits the earth and flames leap out. The chimera puts on her ski boots. I think it’s time to rent a trailer and rip the sky into little pieces of sport.

The salt coincides with the light hiding in the pineapples. Everything seems linked to an idea of itself, just like a can of shaving cream: the sublime is longer when it lingers in the hand, soft and white and moist, like a kiss of ambiguity, or the tutelage of twilight. This is called flannel, or how to resolve the problem of agriculture.

The past stumbles into a paperweight and liberates a cloud of words. A sheet of paper catches everything nebulous and allusive and tossed by the side of the road. The fuller development of our dreams offers us the savor of mushrooms and melts it into calculus. Thursday turns out to be significantly larger than the chameleon crawling on my hand, which invites further speculation, struts and wings and a meridional imagery that I can use later to describe a collarbone.

I hope the manure doesn’t ruin our appreciation of apricots. Is it any less thematic to enter a café and order a cup of reminiscence and drag it across the sacrament of eating? In a word, yes. The hammer eventually persuades the nail to enter the wood. And the vertebrae charm the pants off of a xylophone. It’s how everything redeems the neon of alternative and provokes reverie. I know whereof I speak. Ebony supports the significance presumed living in the barometer. Contrariety rattles down the road and the barge awaiting us in the canal is magnificent. And we walk toward it, singing in total silence.