Wood Is So Beautiful

Wood is so beautiful it demands a second look. The poet’s rattle confirms this with bits of bone from the carcass of an albatross. My jokes fall flat. Not equally but more like a river that flows through the conversation with ducks and canoes. The ducks are funny but the canoes are tragic, like innocence. I think it’s time we produced a movie, a dramedy pale as heartwood, starring muscle cramps and Brad Pitt as a cocker spaniel. Backyards are for rumination. This is where your employment begins. You, the reader, plying your way through this sentence, which is muddy, and firm as Miro’s grip on color. Put this harness on. You’ll need it for the spasms. Orange debris drifts through a biography of the universe, which began as a stone, singed and unearthed from a misunderstanding. The sun gets to heaven fast down in New Orleans. A bronze Buddha smiles with the gentle acceptance of a brush moving over a head of thinning hair. I feel a thrill moving up the spine. Our postulates are opals. Our conclusions are knobs. Death clenches an echo. The red mind of an osprey sparkles under a blue sky. I’ve got a habit of imitating food long as a grocery receipt. Art deals with the imponderable. No fire is bashful that burns with its own development. The smell of creosote imbues the meaning of an afternoon with desolation, which sits on the horizon like a charred stagecoach. The map is not the territory. But the trees celebrate their leaves with ramification as the stylus swallows its eyes and a noun bounces across the moon mud, flames blooming from the tip of an index finger. The tea is green as a barn full of Pythagorean cows, a glob of spit on a palette of luminous paint. I’m all wrinkles & aggression, a fizz of undecided bones morose as a book shelf in a Parisian attic, the night’s sublimity apparent in an upheaval of stars. The guests are leaving, their rockets burning far out in space. The smell of burnt toast disguises all the blooming going on. Why are ruins always so romantic? What’s romantic about death? Did you notice that as I said that the sidewalk murmured something about napkin rings? Umber is the lumber of slumber. It takes years to build an abstraction. London has its needs. We endure these emotions by explaining them. The imitations are soaked in blood. A locomotive in the hallway bespeaks the interior snaps of a fiction embedded in a handful of words, each one a supposition, and everything a hypothesis, which triggers cartilage and flexibility, enough to knot a tie, open the door and enter the world.