The Fruit Of Subversive Ghosts

I’m not sure what to make of the new flavor. Its vapory essence eludes the chiseling of words, the hammer of grammar, the gloss of definition, perspicuity packed and waxed in syntax. We share such phenomena constantly, somehow, feeling empowered by the concretizing illusions of language, but ultimately chastened by its delusional allure. Below, the slosh of waves is fat with tugs. Everyone is swimming upstream, immersed in argument, the senses heated to horsepower, arms reaching from the water urgent, hot, and phantasmal. My ape is within, stunned by sleep. I’m green. I’m a bistro to my own flutter. Mint condition paraffin causes the ooze of delivery to illumine the cartilage footnoting our bones. Later, when the sun justifies our windows, we find life in our theorems, however misconceived or snapped together like Lego blocks.

I like this rake. I can use it in order to better understand the obscurity that surrounds our drama. The point is well taken. But I remain opposed to crime. I prefer cream. The olive oil glistening on that roasted chicken makes me feel a little mercantile. Is that natural? A storm of decadence inhabits the corner of my mouth, smoldering like a word that I almost uttered, animated with breath and blood and warm intention. I guard nothing as much as furniture. I see mud and forsythia. I see rhinoceros and energy. I think that the universe is made of ink and apricot. Even the fox must flee the mad affirmations of the hippopotamus.

Ok, so then it gets, you know, nothing done, and that’s sophisticated, you know, like opening a door and holding it for an old woman to squeeze through with her groceries, or Ricky Gervais. The map, so they say, is not the territory. And yet my left pocket is a realm unto itself, a monad, if you will, of car keys and loose change, I feel summer in there, the warmth of my leg warming the cold metal keys, pennies and nickels and dimes, quarters, the extent of my symbolic life, which is contact, touch, and sobbing about those things that can never return, they’re bombs in the memory now, illumining the skull with their explosive opium.

I’m a man, whatever that means, it’s a stage toward something exciting, marmalade or maturity, take your pick. The numbers are pastel. They allow us to calculate our trajectory with greater subtlety and flocks of impenitent rust. I see a beautiful wheel. It smells of almonds and travel. These agitations that I continue to plague me at night are legible as courtrooms or bottomless pits. The house creaks like a ship underway in a latitude of trespass and trepidation. It helps to have heat. It awakens the animal in me and enlarges all the patterns. Sooner or later we all become an amalgamation, a sponge, a spherical blob of glistening convolution. Squeeze a brain and words come dribbling out of it. Mop a sentence with the brain and the moisture is vaporized into thought, sublimated into fantasy, steeped in grammar, which is the language of water, which is the anguish of language.

And so the propellers are propositions. How can it be otherwise? Each word has a firm crust and a juicy interior, the etymology a pilgrimage through the corridors of history, people conversing in the streets. Hobnob, shake hands, nod in agreement, emit signs of interior life, moods and opinions. Those inclinations in us that cause perception to meander, enter new dimensions. The prospects are gorgeous. Divinity resides in our hands. Mud combined with thought amounts to bricks, exhibits, the peppermint of kings, and the fruit of subversive ghosts.