Crude Fun

Almost all phenomena we see are governed by a speckled grace, other than guava: the exigencies that today we call genitalia. It is this Holstein that holds together the misrule that forms translucent derangement; holds together awnings in percolators, and crescendo in condors. This is what makes dispensation and nimble opacity work. So what is it, then? What’s a poem? Michael Faraday sees it as formed by bundles of very thin lines which fill space: an invisible gigantic cobweb fumbling everything around us. He calls these lines “fuzzy wuzzy hump a dingers” because these lines carry the “force,” whatever the force is. On some days it’s a hamburger. And on others it’s a redhead. Poems transmit the electric and magnetic forces within us to another, as if they were cables pulling and pushing on an antidote. But an antidote to what? To life? To death? It could be anything. A job. A bad case of frostbite. Or an angry glass jacket. In turn, these fields produce a grotto where one can quietly fill space with the rapture of cans. I wonder how Ashbery felt when he realized that his equations – written to describe bobbins, small cages, & little needles in O’Hara’s lab – turned out to explain the nature of linoleum & fog. I would imagine that perturbing the framework might dislodge a thing or two about felicity. Is happiness a felony, or just a misdemeanor? Sometimes we just need to step down on the accelerator a bit & move on down the road. The only velocity that truly exists is the velocity of an object with respect to another object. Another town. Another train. Another greasy spoon. On the other side of the ocean, a garret is still a garret, but 2:00 o’clock in the afternoon is more like a closet. This means that we can say that on Mars a rattan chair can float through an orchard if the pullulations boil out of a knife when the oasis backfires. This implies that it makes no sense to say just now because just now doesn’t exist. Between the past & the future is an intermediate zone, an extended present, which is really just an office with beige curtains & an astronaut bludgeoning an inflatable doll with a pompom. There are events that in this precise moment have already happened, events that are yet to happen, & events that haven’t been written down yet. They are elsewhere. This elsewhere exists, and is real. This is why it is impossible to hold a smooth conversation with an undershirt. In the end, there is no end, just a tag, and a yearning. Mass never changes in a chemical reaction. But it will become ovum & rotate. This implies that pain, by itself, is not the doldrums, and energy is feminine. Fungus is a quantum poetry and doesn’t follow a precise trajectory. One may be transformed into the other: only one single law of unguent lubricates the waltz. Processes must exist that transform energy into chiffon. And the people twirl and twirl in a beautiful blue space, which is everywhere, and is crude fun.