Ninety-Two Pounds Of Air

The steam is emotive, effectively vague and good for the mushrooms. I need mushrooms. They’re masterpieces of decay. Thought whistles out of the kettle creating histories of grandeur and iron. Today we begin a new fauna. These shaggy words will bring forth a delirium of coral and cause moods to float through the sentence like dugout canoes with no one in them. At least, that’s the current ambition. Things might change when the prisoners are released and we all have knitting to finish.

Alchemy is, after all, a blue enterprise. It’s not the kind of work anyone can do under fluorescent lighting. The endurance of being is a conversation with death. Always. It’s always been this way. I praise the virtue of aberration. I rip definitions into luxurious indiscretions and multicolored extension cords. I lean against the peninsula of a treble clef and drag the sky over my brain. It feels silk, like the first day I went fishing for a princess in the lobby aquarium. I was not a little hermetic then, and not a little hermetic now, but I still like hunting down reactions to my upheaval. It’s a form of therapy. Like hanging upside down in the closet.

Twilight tastes of sawdust and sausage, the shiver of liberation. Anguish bathed in apology. The clouds must be studied. The guitar must be played. The words must be pronounced. With a harmonica and a tender zucchini. Our destiny is not in the stars. It’s in a martini.

Everything crumbles, this is the reality of life. Even the king must undergo the rigors of mortality, shoulders stooped, muscles aching, bones creaking. However, the sun always rises. There’s a world in each word. There’s the energy of a sun streaming out of our eyes when we engage with words, engage with their sounds, their shadows and vetoes, their tufts and tails of cosmic undulation. The taste of beauty can be bitter, but the soul of the lute is succinct in its string and vibration.

The painter sits in front of the canvas pondering a goat. The purpose of a tool isn’t always apparent. It’s why the trees are so radical. The leaves are pages of a book browsed by the wind. Everything reaches for the sun. For the light. For the heat. For the source of all this sensation.

I like the fog when I can wear it like a shirt, or a debutant at the Ball of Anarchic Banana Jitters. I feel the shiver of consonants in the music of an emerald. The filet is almost ready. It smells like a season ticket to a roller-skating derby. It’s not a normal filet. It’s more like a perspiration of pretense. As you can see, nudity goes a long way here. My sole regret was to spank the meringue before the raven found his timbre. The silence that ensued was deeper than a preposition tromping around in the sentence with an ax.

Something is dripping from my life. It might be me, it might be my life, and it might be buffalo. How bucolic, you say, and I agree. The paroxysms are unmistakable. I've given birth to a herring. Or did I mean hearing? My hearing is here. Where my heart is. Caged in ninety-two pounds of air. Empty. Vacant. But joined by symbols in a usury of emotion. Picture the skeleton of a whale on a sandy beach. That’s it. The dream is gone. But the bones remain. And the angels all weep in the rain.