My Scorpion Salute

It is sadness which is the sun cheese which makes the cabbage do convolutions for the mystery of matter. All things roll the tiger wheel of beauty. The same mechanical liquid that makes shape become lush allows time for sauce. I cherish these hours of bee palpation. If you don’t like this reality you can sculpt another from wax and inject it with the knowledge of currents. The clock will respond with brown & affirm the languor of law. All these things came to me pleading for expression & legs. I gave them the legs of spiders & a bag of rocks to make some noise. The lampshade provides storms. The long neck of the chair makes everything sensual. I call this furniture & whisper it to the mahogany. I feel the heat of the hummingbird’s ecstasy. Is it archaic to believe the moon drools a fulgurant honey? The almond velour of the sausage confirms Saussure’s theory on linguistics: there can be no amalgamation of thought in a mailbox without the dry dizzy weight of the steeple bell in the eye of a sparrow. And that gets the calories tangled up in beans. This is my card. This is the ocean. If you look closely, you can see the foam has a franchise. Therefore, the golden jelly of my scorpion salute enters its articulation. Poplars line the river’s melody. Agates trigger a tale of currents and windshields. The currents themselves plunge the frost house in decimals. The grass flies through the painting of its representation. Everything is as cuddly as reason and assumes a gentle pose in the mind as a harpsichord delivers a shattering melody to the surrounding indifference. The table says now to its food and lifts it gracefully into view the way words do when they’re trying to get something across. And the tablecloth smells of musk and the candles behave like sleep. It is the place of well-being to rise and offer a toast. A circus bear sits on the bed and rests a paw on a woman’s shoulder. We should all scold loving for the cruelty of its twists and shackles. But who does that? Who isn’t eager to get a taste of luxury? Birth has an answer. Tendrils have friends. But the chamomile moon says go into the cave. That’s where the memories propagate in a wind whose source is a complete mystery. The door has a ridiculous weight. Give it a good push and feel the dream open to the mountain blinking at you under the eyelid of night. A wild electricity caresses the chasm walls. Sometimes what I want is a simple theater and a little knot in my brain to come undone. It’s complicated to heal some things. Refrigerators, for example, or saxophones. The junkyards are full of them. it takes months for a sensual wind to engulf my life. But whose life is it? Do I belong to the wind? Nobody belongs to the wind. The wind belongs to nobody. It’s a perfect relationship. Like words in a sentence rowing a chameleon across a bucket of dark weather.