The Cake Doctor Lies On A Slab Of Marble

Consciousness fascinates me in much the same way that Keith Richards is fascinated by the guitar. I find many of the current neurological theories stop making music and begin baking quarks. Do quarks really have flavors? Consciousness says traffic lights are difficult to accept as mud. Which does describe the way consciousness feels much of the time. Like Kleenex. And snot. Let’s take a thought and send it some information. Fatten it up. Get it loaded with morning. What do metaphors think of frosting? The cake doctor lies on a slab of marble. The cake doctor is a book of recipes for making cake. This is how I interpret my experience of the world. Many of the sentences I write are constructed with pterodactyls jacked on methedrine. The emphasis on the materiality of consciousness is to suggest a separation between skin and air, nerve and word, brain and rain. Everything is just a kitchen gadget, a Loch Ness soup ladle or a manual milk frother. It’s anything that bears a little understanding and sympathy: the gong in the bell, the tongue in the mouth, the swirls of the mind in the icing of the cake. Consciousness is an enigma. No one knows what consciousness does all day within the small confines of the skull, but at night it comes out in diphthongs and oils everything with a film of cognitive fever. Wildcats roam this agitation looking for the beard of God. We see the sparkle of syntax rolling toward the end of the sentence and wonder if there’s enough Weltanschauung to go around. I’m pretty sure we don’t have to worry. The earth smells rich. It’s an unmistakable concession. Consider the lilies. They don’t even wear shoes much less explode. Even if a stiffened grammar leans against the ocean, who really gives a shit, besides Friedrich Hölderlin? The smell of desire constructs graphs and charts. In the end, the most important thing you can do for yourself is to find some hydroelectricity to walk around in. It feels anonymous, like mountains. What do we mean when we talk of home? We mean Hillary Clinton grinning at you on a plasma television. Consciousness deserves better than this. Consciousness could use a cake doctor. I’ve never been very good at math, but the local bus is steeped in my mind. The poem is petulant. It wants the smell of sawdust to become a Mexican restaurant. This happened because of a willingness to experience life. Is your reality my reality? Consider the dream of life and sigh. Language is where we meet and discuss Planet Earth. I wonder about this desire to put words together mated with the idea that anything can happen and I find that exhilarating. The poem drops anchor and wonders what’s out there. If we look closely we can see meteors streak the sky. Inside, the windows rattle. The stove heats up. The walls shake. A door slams. The staircase hugs its own shape. Consciousness gleefully does its thing, races around looking for purpose and meaning. Can I include your nails? My hammer speaks German. Life is a problem solved by constructing narratives. It makes the chaos easier to handle. Even the mirror has a pulse. Wyoming flies out of my mouth. What can I say? I’m attracted to knives gleaming in the bloom of day. Consciousness provokes an interest in swans. My head itches. The piccolos are proof that the moccasins on the hearth are universal, although I feel cloudy, kicked and gynecologic. Tomorrow I will be more expectant and louche. Life contains ingredients that I can pronounce, although they’re a little gray and mute. Is this why life was created? Or am I making this up? I think I’m making this up. Or maybe it’s making me up.