The Sleep Of The Armadillo

I feel the exultation of stone. Heat ascends my paraphernalia. I’m doing this out of sheer patriotism. I love a deep rich dirt deepened by the subtlety of rain & engines of mist & heliotrope. I think to heat up my face. It generally works best in the dark. This is where the ghosts hang out. Each one is holding a phone conversation. A ruby has faith in itself because an armchair calls for boiling. This happened once in a dream & another time in the open where the words appeared to carry it away in a circus. No gun is truly cosmetic. There’s a poet in Los Angeles who stuffs all of his metaphors with exotic adjectives & this makes life tolerable & occult. I laugh sometimes when the moment calls for luxury. The queen of jiggles slides easily out of her box & stands there nude as an embankment. There are needs that need expression & needs that need a sound to make them silver. It’s because the river sews itself up that the current heads for Las Vegas on a wild sewing machine. This is flowing now & works like a skeleton dancing crazily on a rose-colored pessimism. The night is broken into drops of breezy rain. And then I got up to see what the universe was doing outside in a cartoon. My mouth goes to sleep in a foggy state & wakes up on another face looking back at me from the bathroom mirror. But hey I haven’t mentioned how all the patterns ran down the tarmac looking for a good denouement. The top drawer makes a spectacle of itself whenever I go looking for a new pair of socks. I see it as a conflagration of diamonds on a Sunday in Cornwall. Meaning is hard to find when it’s so frankly yearning for a kiss & a hug that people just walk by ignoring it. Yellow inflates a shape of thoughtless bliss & then topples over after a piece of reality punches it with a fist of mathematics. Grammar is always so sad. The articles try to frame things in a more exalted manner but the prepositions get lost in their cooking. The salt is up when the pepper is down & the infatuations are in a heap in the kitchen sink. Forks are claws and the lucidities are nestled in spoons. The kettle begins to whistle in its state of constant reverie. It looks like I’m moving but I’m standing still. The lung barometer is old and the alembic hangs from a hip of Thursday. Is any of this beginning to resemble a cynical bonfire tangled in plastic? I hope not. Winter still hangs a little in the spring air. The axle of the text allows the words to roll forward thereby creating furniture and calories to rattle in the eyes like swans. Can it be that pearls of sugar are the result of a high fever? Yes, and the soul of a shadow that comforts the sleep of the armadillo.