Saturated With Music

Is the world saturated with music? Yes, & it’s also sandy & swarming with ants, particularly if there’s a garden nearby & a man preparing to eat a hot dog. There’s the music of the elements, gold & beryllium, music obvious as tap water, or scarlet fever. The murmur of an old squid in the middle of an audition. The irresistible agitations of a persistent irritation. Stephane Mallarmé leading a prison escape. The sound of the sirens, the braying of the hounds. Every roadbed is worth a laugh. A hailstorm piling reflections by the wall of a garage churns with wind & is resplendent with first steps, initiations of velvet, & the lazy scavengers of night smelling of menthol & gin. Someone singing, slightly off key, & underground. The splash of color on wrapping paper comes to our rescue, providing ravishment & spit. We gaze at one another like pilgrims, falcons on our shoulders, crabs walking toward us with kisses & resumés. We all have our ways, yes? Mine is hauling firewood. And remembering to turn on the music.

        Breath is a franchise for the propagation of sound. Folklore. Icelandic vivacity. The Northern Lights. Gunfire in a sugar refinery. An old woman milking a cow. 

        There are seven shadows in a shark, one of them is sharp & another is shaving. Eight hornets deepen the green. Their drone is a prologue to Being, the calm before the storm, incidents of high concern which have been raised into representation by grace & easy fluctuation. Rain confirms the forest, a baroque jewel on the finger of a plenitude. It’s all a music of meat & gravy, mushrooms growing at the side of the road. The extreme blue of the sky is captured by snow. It lies on the ground obscuring the cabbage & hiding the rubble of a recent war. Patterns are everywhere. Jupiter. Paganini. Prague. Music is organized sound. Meanings shift with the focus, the tempo, the rhythms & melodies. Reality is never any one thing, it’s a multitude of locations & meanings, blossoms & disembodiments. The main thrust is metamorphosis. A slammed door, a cup of tea teeming with Buddhism, bubbles winking in sunlight. 

        Algebra floats the idea of metal, as if a walrus flopped forward deepening the sense of address that a forklift loaded with eggs might have of the future. Because a walrus & a forklift have this in common: both are silhouettes of existence. And existence includes tigers. Pebbles & algebra. The taste of existence is stronger if it’s boiled in reflection. The terrain is negligent, solidly quotidian. There’s a theory that shivering provokes agriculture. Farms. Or is it frames? Is a farm a form of frame? The use of arms suggests a kind of signaling. The mind tosses words like grenades, a bouquet of overflowing telephones. Ants are emissaries of nature, reminding us that the use of levers can liberate the elephants from their labor, if the elephants can be considered as living creatures & not just stewards of wisdom. Consider, if you will, the gallantry of Spain, or the knots destined to hold the air together, which are words, which are knotted together to make a city, & which are multilayered like onions, like gold, or the nomads of the desert in their kingly robes. Feelings written in chalk on a blackboard, equations gathered in frisky splendor used to solve the problems of the intangible, make the unseen seen, & articulate dirt.