This Is Where My Face Begins

Why would the ghost of a clam appear to us as a cow? The invention of thirst comes to us dressed as a Gregorian chant. It’s ok. It looks fine. Just put the fucking turkey in the oven. Nothing beats the elegance of dying. Death is nothing but sugar skulls. The poet is a gravel driveway walking through the eye of a needle. I mean clumsy waves moving up and down a cobra neck-tie. Poetry is an engine of nutmeg. Sage goes better with prose. Basil is good for ear infections and blood sugar management. You can dial an irrational number and get a little closer to Christmas morning. I once dated a tiger with a snake between her teeth. This led me to write with .38 caliber Smith & Wesson. Do you like cream with your gravity? Heartache is a cure for science. But nothing cures a dull yellow like an ivory black in a painting by Rembrandt. No amount of logic can explain the sparkle in the eye of a monkey except the monkey. Let your mind wander a little. Watch it dilate. The mind dilates when it wanders. And yes. I’m hooked on polyphony. And I always liked crinkly old dollars when I sat in a bar in the afternoon and rested my arms on an old oak bar and looked at all the bottles on the wall and marveled at the shape and variety of feelings in me. Feelings have shapes. Some of them are shaped like a hairy arm and some of them can bend a glass of Pink Chardonnay into a leopard. The forklift lifts a pallet of formaldehyde and so concludes this procedure with flames thundering out of the back and becomes a rocket flying through my heart like buffalo on the plains in 1752. I like the little light bulbs in the bathroom on the top rim of the mirror. This is where my face begins to swarm with delusion. And I leave it here at your doorstep as a sandy beach. My mustache is big and flairs out at the sides like maniacal curlicues because I don’t have a mustache. The mustache is imaginary, and therefore lumber. My ego is a tall drafty building. I think I’m a carpenter of description but as it turns out I’m only the definition of a heliotrope. But there’s plenty of room for growth, and so I grow, I grow into adjectives, I grow into self-awareness and attribute it to water, I grow into experience as I’m experiencing the experience whatever the experience is. I experience words just they bring more lobsters into the world. It’s hard to think what a lobster thinks unless you’ve got a bunch of words lying around in your head. Meanwhile, I listen to the Rolling Stones sing “Blue Turns To Gray,” which gives me speed bumps. I belong to a prospect. What I see is hypothetical until it surrounds itself with healthy advantages. An embroidered shoe, a lobed Delft dish with a swan or Constance Hopkin’s beaver hat. It’s hard to carry a generation in your voice. It takes an escalator and the fact of your existence rising to a new level, a new universe.