Crazy Patterns On My Sheets

Good to see a motel, even if you don’t plan on stopping & checking in. It’s nice to know it’s there. It provides a way out of all the unnatural concerns with one’s well-being. When life ceases to be a faked wrestling match & assumes the grandeur of trout we must solicit the gods & drink extra amounts of coffee. Consciousness is a boulevard of boundless dahlia. You’ll find ice cubes in the freezer, epiphanies in beans. Dexterity like this isn’t natural, but it leads to enchantment, & fine stationary. When you understand your mind in this way, there’ll be a big fat pillow, & boats at night. Lie back. Imagination is what happens when ripples move to the shore in Shakespeare’s sonnet, each changing place with that which goes before, & getting your mind wet. Moisture is a function of soliloquy. I get quiet in the bathroom. I’m a Dickens in a duck suit. I’m a geyser of spiders & a friend to the web. I’m a crease of Keats & a sign of Stein. I like phosphorus hats multipurpose knives & long walks on the beach. But enough about me. Let’s talk about you. You is a pronoun, I know, but I also knew the prepositions that helped bring you into being. It took a lot of lifting. Pumping. Heavy breathing. It took a team of crack cartoonists just to draw your nose. But hey, I dig your overall look. I like the uniformity of plaid & the flow of your tie is nothing less than suave. The eyeball gloves & intestinal sweater are quietly understated. Gold lamé seems a little too flashy these days, as things often do post-Presley, but you learn to accept this, because chickens have the mass of bears when the weather permits, & their feathers are soft as fog. Funny to think I’ve gone my entire life without wearing a uniform. I guess my old hippie clothes were a strange species of uniform, though they were far from uniform, they were pluriform, a miscellany of items collected, on the sly, from museums & theatres, a brocaded caftan with gold buttons, doublet, codpiece, frogging, jerkin, passementerie, & a Spanish cape of orange velvet. These days all I really want is a simple theater & a little knot in my brain to come undone. Do I belong to the wind? Nobody belongs to the wind. I cherish these hours of bee palpation. Is it archaic to believe the moon drools virgins? Birth has an answer. The good kind, with periscopes and introspection. Most religions travel at an average speed of reverie, which is a daydream of darshan, which is Sanskrit for viewing, or point of view, and is the act of beholding a deity, a revered person, or sacred object. Everything else is just sprinkles on a sundae. Therefore, the golden jelly of vision enters its articulation & feels the warm dreams of earth under the eyelid of night. There will come a time & it will howl a language nobody understands. It will sound like silk & carry its own reasoning. It will sound like something near and far, and have the sweetness of berries, & blow onto land like the morning mist, & harden into words.