Massa Confusa

There’s nothing in the world but the mind itself, a loon in a suit a martini in a bikini an ovum in a scrotum a naked spirit trapped in a body peeping out at the aforementioned world through balls of jelly and nerve and retina wondering what furrows of time will yield jewels of sequence, steeds of endurance riding clouds of quahog and gull, nothingness is a daily event, all the manias are palpable, memories are emeralds and rain is the essay I’ve always wanted to write. And because the laundry fairy left me a quarter on the little white table between the washer and dryer I now know who I am. I’m streamlined I’m a handbag I’m a nonpartisan ulterior percussion in somebody’s cushion the streets are brilliantly potholed speed bumps are inherently silly perception is plastic and scaffolding is scary. I say these things not out of rage or prologue but to mollify the moment and make it like unto a macrocosm with a stigma in a peanut by the snuggle in your rubber. And because the picture in my mind just crawled out of a cave to kiss the bruise in your goodwill. And because I ate two cherry doughnuts this morning instead of one I will have to do push-ups burn calories induce revelations and otherwise be the being I initially intended which is a seaman in the game of clay we call a life. Crinkle a bag and go powerfully into the day exuding heat and magic. A lake of ease awaits the shawl and slow step of somebody’s grandmother. Sometimes it brings a little ease to break a craving into a squadron of musical topics. A little detachment goes a long way. Thank goodness for books and a place to put one’s tastes and irritations. Jukebox on paper. Shiny chrome and soft blue lights. Everyone’s manias lengthened into sweet mountain meadows, a grand celestial highway of clouds and rocky peaks and desolation as far as the eye can see.