The Medium Is The Milieu

I’m invested in a milieu of bone and blood, a simian exposition founded on a principle of flexibility, the cartilaginous column providing robust passage, a conduit for the melody of nerve & spinal cord to flow through the musk of our mutual understanding. Can I say it any differently? The how and why of the marigold, the ounces of math left on an unzipped testament. The parabola of the sky trembles like sugar in the shoes of articulation. We see this hunkered down in the shadows and leave it to the jaywalker to figure out. We don’t talk about it enough. This dazzle, this interrelation of things played out in moss and mushroom. The musician must understand the music of mustard before she can understand the needs of the cello, which are werewolves tempting the favors of the moon in the grain of the wood, and come out in deep vibrational fantasies of perpendicular lacquer. Everything is a matter of breath and furniture. The substantive is a bullet. To be peripheral is to be figural, a daydream laid out before us like a mound of applesauce adjoining a mound of mashed potatoes. I feel the edge of the world in the breath of the morning. The dizzying liquor of possibility. That moment when everything is so clearly delineated it could never be a song. It could only be a weekday, a frontier with a schedule in it. It’s hard for me to say this but the truth of marble isn’t in its density but the nobility of its influence, how it affects the hands when you’re leaning on it to gaze at yourself in the mirror wondering who the person might be behind that face in the glass. This is how tedium becomes a medium for nitroglycerin. The hotel is a rationalization. All this luxury is supercilious, but we all need a place to sleep. The theatre, on the other hand, constructs an emotion so large for us to go home with we can barely contain it, which was the point of drama in the first place, absolution, catharsis, but what we ended up with wasn’t Centaurus but a colorless planet called Deputy Jones. When last seen, it was holding a glass of wine and wearing a crown. This was out by the Kuiper belt and I was still in my underwear when I drifted into a field of introspection. One can find paradise in an almond and the sound of the word staircase is in the ink with which it’s been written and then used, step by step, to take us into the attic where we talk of feathers and evolution in the fog of conversation. Images are the shadows of a brighter reality. The fire is behind us. The shine of saliva reflects the intensity of our vision. The darkness is animated by a crystal interior. Everything is an instance of poetry. But not everybody sees it. Kiowa hunt buffalo. It’s 1854. Arthur Rimbaud has just been born. Franz Liszt’s Orpheus premieres. A philosophy walks out of the sun and splashes down somewhere near Omaha, which has just been established as a trading post. Essences are axles. But it’s the wheels that make things roll.