Infinity Gets Slippery

Infinity gets slippery after it’s been snowing all night. The light we see right now is 2.5 million years old, but who’s counting? In India, Winter solstice will take place at 3.53 a.m. on December 22 and will be visible in the night sky along with the Ursid meteor shower.

That sound you hear is one million sighs of relief. Dogs barking. Foghorns and barges. Tangled chains spreading in whistles of sepia impact.

The dragon of the red dawn deepens in actuality. The noble wound of morning arrives by invocation. The breath of angels serves the energy of the electromagnetic spectrum by crackling and creating windows we can see through and doors we can open. As you can see, it’s all about malleability. The plasticity of most situations flows through us in narratives, bottles of sound, music scraped out of the air and hammered into consonants of purring thought. I can’t explain the behavior of any language, how it describes things, how it distinguishes things, how it determines things, how it makes meaning dance on a thread of paint. But I love the shape of nuts.  

I became a man that day. You can feel it in the shoulder. It’s easier to accept a little pain occasionally then to go away and try to start a new life. If I were you I’d just get a hot dog and sit down and quit worrying about it. Wealth can mean so many things to so many people. For me, it just means a few more things to do, a few more calls to make, a few more paintings to invest in.

You need to prioritize. Figure out what’s important, what’s not important, and what’s outside of the box altogether.

What’s important is intuition. Awareness, understanding, perspicacity. In a word: epiphany. Epiphanies are wonderful. They’re like an airport struck by lightning. Do you get on that flight or not? Who do you ask? What can anybody say? You can get down and pray. You can get up and try the very next thing to pop into your brain.

Or you can grab your luggage and get on the plane. It’s all one in the end, isn’t it?

The intuition of legs approves the promenade in a suggestion of feet. This has been proved by the fact that things in this world change. The coconut palm has a sensual squirt. I have the wasp’s thorny tongue for a furniture of flames and the curious effect of language on a flight attendant. The lushness of remedy in a simple frequency can accomplish eyes. And a library is the perfect place for the gyrations of a fish.

I wear my coffee as an extension of things that my blood is unwilling to do. I’ve got the tattoo of a scorpion on my back and the semblance of a cat stunned into existence by clause and agglutinative language. A silver hummingbird evolves in a milieu of handstands and planets to become an image central to my understanding of honey mesquite. I feel the weight of a poem in me struggling to unfurl itself under the press of a stethoscope. Faith is a different animal than the tilt of a sweater on a wire hanger in a Vegas motel. But, sooner or later, we all come to discover the truth of propaganda. It works by fostering opinions that a few find more palatable than reality, which is always a little punchy after enduring several rounds with a plurality of alternative perspectives.

Truth is such a giant abstraction it requires a messiah, or at least a billboard.

Life is a gamble. You learn that quickly on the highway. The signs are everywhere.

I would advise you to always have a pen and paper handy. There are things you can do by writing that are more difficult to achieve in conversation. For example, the department of indolence will finish reading the paper until paradise gets its almonds back, and this what is meant by ballyhoo. No one can get a word in edgewise. It helps to shout, but a lot of nuance gets lost. The palace receives a delivery of denim. It’s time we got to work. I welcome the plough, but not the geometry. The dirt feels good. The geometry stings like an abscissa. Outside, the whale rains membranes. We see the accidents of life from another perspective: two hundred grand lying in a loose heap on a purple bedsheet, a young woman moaning and delirious, pineapples strewn on a Nevada highway. This is what happens when you talk shit. You find yourself surrounded by thousands of possibilities, and the effect is dizzying, and grand, and shapes easily in the air.