Courtesy Croak

Here’s a courtesy croak: the thumb is separate from broomsticks. Insomuch as rubber has a theology of uncontrollable protoplasm, isn’t it time to hijack a hobby & make it eligible for sandpaper? I encourage the porterhouse to inure its tentacles to snowshoes. The phrase is syrup to the broadside. London on a palette of the globe hurling elocution at a moose. The laundry, meanwhile, travels through its mirth. And I hope one day that my sleeves will find a vulva that will help me secure a surer sense of dishevelment within a system of uniquely rigorous redundancies. Geometry settles to the bottom of the textbook & pirouettes on a spatula.

It’s possible to imagine a situation in which I’m not here, not here among these words, none of which have anything to do with me, they’re just words, words that I’ve chosen, but that’s as far as it goes, I didn’t invent the system, the choreography of sounds & meaning that this amalgam comprises, bone & skin I’m going to call a rhinoceros, & leave it at that. And that’s the power of language, that you don’t have to be where it goes, you can just go for a ride, let a small part of you fall out of your head & become an idea, the sound of music spilling out of a blues club in Chicago, Buddy Guy making a rhinoceros come out of his guitar, & toss my mind in the air.

Clouds aren’t clods. Clouds are graceful & messy. They’ve got shapes but no definition. The shapes move & blow west or blow east or southwest or southeast but they don’t have style they just float & fill space & peruse themselves in perversities of form & thunder. The thunder is courtly. The lightning is disorganized. But bright. The invalids beneath are studious & systematic. The clouds walk around in confidence. You can plough them or saw them & they’re still clouds. Not clods. Clouds. Intimations of heat & humidity. Epileptic hurricane parsley.

I stand ready to describe the ineffable but yes it’s impossible so I just guffaw. The gophers are poised in stupefaction. I’ve always found sauerkraut to be inscrutable. It sits there on the plate like a spectacle of turrets & lamas. It tastes of warranty. Yet nothing is guaranteed. Not even declension. Privacy is a feature intrinsic to a sink. The faucets are succinct. Water rides the lips until the portfolio wheels around a theocracy in a wheelbarrow of creaky supplication. Epidemic medallions clutter the bloodmobile. Let the hemorrhoids come forward with their testament. The time has come to learn the ins & outs of leather carving. I’m at liberty to acquaint you with jute.

That point where the geography becomes an emotion, a puzzled theocracy, or broadcast. The news tonight is angry. Angry as always. All the anchors pout. They look sullen. Because this is a sullen country. We hear the opening chords of “Babe I’m Going To Leave You” as a young man walks through the fog on the Pacific coast. Heterogeneity is a delicate thing to keep going. You need a little dialectic to leaven the dumbness of the dough. This doesn’t happen often. But when it does the world turns the sweeter for it. Diversity is the university of convergency. We’re going to go walking through the park every day. And discover the fragrance of Hegel in the bagels.