The Call Of The Calliope

I’m growing my independence. The scudding clouds assist my search. The mushrooms are beyond my control. I cut pieces of air into writing. The powder of carousal is electric with it. There’s chemistry, and then there’s chemistry: the laboratory sparkles with the many subtleties of interaction. We migrate through our destinies, babbling like monkeys, spitting out theories. One hypothesis involves a stick shift and a window rolled down, while another evolves into Holsteins. And this is the chemistry of music, the metaphorical hive of the concertina which, when it’s squeezed, makes me want to cry. So many regimes topple when the right symmetry is engaged. I pay attention to the vertebrae of the suitcase. I can hear my shirts bubbling. Crabs walk across my world. The insects are clattering on the drum kit, expecting what, I don’t know, food or something. The solace of perception is that it’s huge, and always changes, depending on the light, and the bas-reliefs, which represent the unfettered frictions of our paradigm. But we keep it moving. We keep it moving because we have to. And because movement is the soul of atmosphere. I take solace in iron. Below, where winter outlines the crags of the fjords with frost and ice, you can see the prominence of muscle in everything, the strength it takes to climb a wall of rock, and consider the distant seas. The mosquito on the shelf carved out of oak. And the watch still ticking, although time itself has ceased to exist, and the museum is quiet now, like ice. You ask if I can find solace in this world, and I say yes. I find it in reckless abandon, and rice. I find it amid the subtleties of skin. I find it resting in a kitchen sink. I find it in music and Montmartre. The glaze of doughnuts. The call of the calliope, and the silences between the walls, where the milk is poured, and the enigmas are born, and sprinkle us with the grains of paradise.