We have echoes and jokes. Our very arrival has wiggled the flow of conversation. Language extends the life of the armadillo by giving it powerful legends and blood. And if I abandon the plot, I find my wallet helps explain the curvature of space. Congeniality streams with deliverance and the reflections roar with mass.
Correspondence spouts from a building of dirt. A watch on the sidewalk infringes on perspective. We cut time out of gravity and hang it from a nearby turret. Toys the parlor whispers squeal with writing. A naked emotion talks its way out of a catalogue of horns.
This is real timber. The timbre is enhanced by obbligato bassoons but the timpani is plunged in bows. Monotony makes everything sway. I pull a sandstone mongrel out of a jabber of wind. Arizona is a version of this which then becomes tactile, a twisted trunk on an anonymous hill.
I meditate my hunch until it embodies animals. The garish we soap by conquest. We are the altitude we fall from until it’s so big the wash becomes a thesis. Each little excerpt pleads for composition. I float beneath myself holding a shield until the air begins to supply us with words.
I gut the opposites which probably leads to baking. Or banking. Only destiny matters. It’s a real power, the biggest dissonance I ever carried, and it strained my back into coils I can now call pearls. Go ahead, fondle the anarchy, we are its veins.
It’s the junkyard so I snap myself at bumpers. It makes the kind of sounds I like to scratch when I’m ruminating on explanation. If the circumference is dry the pi is juicy. I learned this by constraining the most beautiful things to escape with the next train of thought. We thwacked our doctrines as we stumbled through Sedona soaked in aroma and were shattered by its solace.
The eyeball spoon expressed its seamlessness by winking and circulating its plasms. I thought I saw a drug there but it was only a reckoning. Death auditioned for its own autobiography but the role was given to a crackling red feather plucked from a body of prose. We cried to vanish so that we could contact it. Electricity sat alone with a stethoscope awaiting outlets and plugs.
Pour the fidgeting where we can push it into further description. How else can a clarinet get a hold on a tube of music if not by buttering space with the gristle of an oboe. It’s time now to pack my intention and come clean about the postage. You’ll need a stamp for the postmortem. I don’t know what the truth is I think it has something to do with the ash awakening in a hibachi.
It’s a strain to talk, a
bit like wrestling, only the significance is wetter and spongier. Somewhere
beneath all my turmoil is an apparition awaiting a mythology of shirts. I like
to give everything at least one subversive flavor to bring to the surface. I
drag a monster out of my heart and dust it with summer until the machinery of
language smears us with hallucinations. And sit back and listen to the rumble
of a dishwasher and whatever drifts through my head gets a thrust of thought.
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