Stephane Mallarmé Leading A Prison Escape

The mind tosses words like grenades, a bouquet of gold & beryllium. The murmur of an old squid in the middle of an audition. Stephane Mallarmé leading a prison escape. The splash of color on wrapping paper comes to our rescue, providing vivacity & spit. We gaze at one another like pilgrims, falcons on our shoulders, crabs walking toward us with kisses & resumés. There are seven shadows in a shark, one of them is an occipital lobe, & another has locations & meanings. The main thrust is a cup of tea teeming with Buddhism, bubbles winking in sunlight. Existence tastes stronger if it’s boiled in reflection. Sing the desert nomads in their kingly robes. 

        My position is separate from your frond. I have longitude but I’m clean out of socialism. Can you lend me a can of isometrics & an incessant straddle that I can use to mute the song of the shoulder blade? My right arm is indicative of the moon in whose light I plead for the spasms of the tenderloin. And you call this poetry? I’m not calling it anything, least of all a guitar. I know a hallucination when I see one. The majority of my noises are nocturnal. The rest is silence. Perfect as the feather of a chicken. Noble as the periphery of a stanza parked in the eye of a urethra. My transmissions are mere protons, but the midnight trilogy is the wink of a wildcat. 

        I sometimes wonder if I know what it is I’m saying. When am I saying something & when is language saying something? Everybody listen to me & return my ship. I’m your captain, though I’m feeling feasible these days, & quite palpable. It’s a vulnerable position, especially at my age. Am I a magician? I have a box of magic next to me. It’s a book called Take This Accordion & Squeeze It Hard. Can I sell you anything? Would you like a library? A study? An aviary? A glockenspiel? An odor? Can I sell you a perfume? This is a fragrance called Consider Me Holy And Buy Me A Home In Hollywood. It shoots out of the bottle in a spray of minivans. 

        The prattle turns stagnant unless someone comes along with the right equipment & gets eccentric with the string. For example, the very presence of poles makes the nosegay plausible. The purring is unnatural, but nubile. The hummingbirds hover by me like the protons of a slippery piece of thought. No, I can’t forget this evening, or the look in your face as you were leaving. But I did forget the sorrow. I let it go. It grew wings & took to the sky, like all good compulsions longing for the vapor of nothingness. Years later, it all gets scattered in social media. It’s a technocratic world, but the underpinnings are noble, & live like worms in the jaws of the earth. 

        And sometimes I just sits. If it fits me. If it suits the time & place. If there’s a good chair to sit in. Or a floor. Preferably a carpeted floor. Although hardwood is de rigueur, there are other options. Hypotenuse steppes with right angle choices & lightning on the menu. The ball is fictitious. Let me roll it to you. It is my duty to inform you that eczema is not a condition it’s a teleology involving skates & Hollywood Bowl. The rupees are russet this time of year & the incentives are vicious. This pass will be good until the spurs come. If you stop acting like a horse people will stop treating you like an IOU. This isn’t flypaper. But the doughnuts are free for registered holes.