Tin Sandwich

Disease is nature’s way of telling us that life on planet Earth is getting weird. The people of Earth have gone insane. They wrap everything in plastic, hoard toilet paper, & walk down the street with buds in their ears talking to invisible people. What can you do? I sit & listen to Charlie Musselwhite play a tin sandwich. When the rain comes it is long & aloof & the streets rise to greet it. Heaven is a library open all day & all night. Everything discharges an aura of worry until a combination of spirit & pepperoni placates the rustle of tinfoil. I endeavor to create a rebirth of everything. And that’s lunch, essentially, bologna on rye in a world of eating & fire.

A thought comes when “it” wishes, not when I wish it. Here comes one now, rolling through the mind like Wyoming. I see a lotus in a birdbath & a lotus in a birdbath appears. And this occurs in Pennsylvania, not Wyoming. So what does Wyoming have to do with anything? This whole thought thing is out of control. Got me running like a cat in a thunder storm. Saying a thing is seeing a thing. But this has little to do with Wyoming. Wyoming gets up & walks away. Goodbye, Wyoming, it was good to see you. I probe the surrounding obscurity with a delicate antenna. Evergreens sway in deviation. This is a wisdom that heard softly in the grass of Ohio.

Mostly I just want out of this world. That’s all I think about now. It’s what you do when you’re old. You pretend you’re young & put words together. Why? Because the possibilities are endless. They can be transformative, but mostly they’re just cheap thrills. Extreme sports are for maniacs. But writing is for the truly mad. Ok, now that that’s cleared up, let’s talk about vibrations in the air, which is music, & gets a lot more positive attention. All arts require sacrifice. There’s no easy formula. But there’s something in the sound of a cello that removes the top of my head & lets all the language out. Why else would I perceive a different reality? That when I waked, I cried to dream again. 

The charm of any theory is its reckless disregard for sanctioned assumptions. The general idea is to pretend it’s important. Theories are known to be flawed, but some of them are capable of fostering a voluptuous inaction. My favorite theory is that language is a structured aggregate of crushed stone & rubbery compounds & is a frequent cause of linguistic drift, accelerated sequences in multidimensional semantics, mutinous pallbearers, & the novels of Henry James. One need also be wary of its capacity for guile: solipsistic narcissists, clamshell packaging, & fraudulent hospital bills. Theories don’t cure ignorance. But at least they don’t create it.

What do I know? Life is peripheral as sleeves. I seek refuge in the muteness of things. Or at least a universe in which everything objective exists in relationship with everything else. How can pink solve anything? I hop around to enhance the effect of spirits. Money is funny & can get in the way of obtaining pleasure if it isn’t used wisely. And now for some privacy. I’m feeling fat. This is to be expected. The artist cannot ignore the economic dominance of her or his time. I is a crayon. Even dead, I watched nervously as a teen age girl touched my head with her bare foot.