My Crude Arena Shirt

This is my crude arena shirt. It has forty buttons of fire shoveled from a theory of Martian cats and a fat vagrant collar of wandering veins. The sidewalk flu is sitting in an armchair waiting for a nerve report and fizzes like Pakistan in the rain. It's a hectic day moved around the world by a giant porcelain shadow. I have a mania for asking my steps where they’re taking me. They respond with oozing desire. They don’t know anything. They cut the lazy day into beautiful strips of blue and yellow to provide us with mollusks and paprika. They know how to do this. But they don't know how to explain anything. There is an abandoned glass of buttermilk resting on a chestnut commode by the eye of a glaring candle. How can anyone explain that? Extension enters its needles and a small blue mass propels itself across the open field drinking the darkness of thorns. And in broad daylight, too. To say nothing of the sun and its ruby mouth kissing the lavender of Provence. This is where grenadine and pearls encounter one another. And now the evening is in knots. I knew this would happen. There’s a quantum hornet on my shoulder and an awesome amalgamation of splashes in my silverware. Just open the drawer. You can hear it. It sounds like the radical gelatin of an ingenious whale regatta as it experiences the universe descending from your eyes as you read this sentence in your private realm. I’m assuming it’s private. I could be overstepping my bounds. But isn’t that what we all do? Sometimes I just stand and stare at the face towels in the bathroom. It isn’t the same as gazing at the surface of Mars, but it offers a verisimilitude of drool to the squeak of morning as the sediments of earth crawl into their reclusive realms and a woman’s scarf blows through the hollow of a sandstone arch.