River Of Bells

My excitement stipples the Atacama desert. But this isn’t Chile. Nor are we in Paraguay. I’m using a spatial allegory to sigh your anger. We shall be in unison. Singing. Gushing our emotion. Finding salvation over the conquest of the merely clever. Cement this by triangle. Then hang it from your chin. We shall assemble this experiment together. Sew. Run. The knives will fit our delectation. Our aim and roundup. The moon is lactating. It remedies our burns. I see leaves everywhere now. I feel like being close to my heart. Tumbling in my room. The resilience is ravenous to pound along the maiden grass until the morning. I grip the sky. I grope for measurement with an equanimity. The air is 20 gallons thick with gospel. I’m this serious. So swollen I drag a pullulating orange through the emergency room. I packed a few flashing lines in a paragraph of rural indemnity. It’s raining in the next sentence but you can stay here until the orchards boil. I feel photogenic across a daub of interpretation. Toss that can. The altitude has shattered my dancing. We’ll need both of our hands to feed the River of Bells. Who are you recruiting to represent this ginger? I’ll be looking everywhere. I shall muse on the mystery of hallucination. My favorite odor is whirling around my mind like an implication. Polish this ooze. Flip your body over a curve. Let’s catch this edge together. Spur the despair. We’ve got a long ride to Tucson. See that book in the backseat? It’s flowering. The words are blossoming into abstractions. Independence did this to the panic soap. We exaggerate our income. We do this for very obvious reasons. One of which is hotels. Another is laid with iron nails and wooden ties. The locomotive invites science. I toss a few emotions into the sentence to make it curve upward. My grip adjusts to the resistance. Your metal is erect. Your scorching assurance entwined around a pumpkin. I spout a weight for the guitar. Everything is a cause of music. But music itself stirs far beyond the potato field. It hangs in the sky, cool and euphoric, like a rainbow in the Rodna Mountains of Romania. We were born before the wind. You know? The bass has a jaunty rhythm, although the melody is wistful. And when that foghorn blows, I’ll be coming home. But no. I don’t live in Romania. I live in a hummingbird. I cut the funnies into little placentas where the word balloons repeat the morphogenesis of propane. Little blue flames lick the grandeur of purpose. I do believe we can find some redemption sooner or later. Hug Paris. It’s beautiful, but sad, like the gargoyle on the top of the Saint-Jacques Tower. The red development leads to a blue envelopment. There’s a bulge in my sack that does this by giving a new heft to the morning. I see it in the mirror: a mask with an animus. Just like reality when it mimics a haircut with shag.