Where Are We Going You Are Already There

I’m the biggest shadow of myself I can find to simmer in total sleeves. My blossoming happens in states. Some of them are Florida, others drill homeward in daintiness and pith. Meanwhile, the disease of life is sifted syllable by syllable until the vowels rattle and the consonants dribble birds.

When the play begins, a man is swallowed by a whale and the sugar inside the crab makes a good breakfast. Hamlet wears bombs of language and the sky sits down on a population of twigs. A brown eye sweats to see a sternum in the hand of a surgeon. Nothing is mirrored. Everything is mud. My reflections twist the knots undone and I can go home humming pieces of air.

Don’t shoot the watermelon. Shoot the debit engine. I need to write the statements into pins I can poke with balloons. Let me be clear. But only when it serves a rose.

The winch must be protected at all times otherwise the bacteria bounce. There’s simply no other way to lift the meaning of this sentence out of the sink and get it oiled. No distraction ever did anyone any good what wasn’t already embedded in themselves like a redwood. The impact can detonate you. The rest of the problem is solved by committing longevity. The beauty of the hand is its cardboard subconscious. The brain hangs freely from a predicate dripping opinion.

Metaphors taste like shaking. And I hear everything as it curves. Or dangles. I’m waiting for an extension to be more pailful. The sheen is gained by appointment. Gravity likes it when contact is thrown apart in celebration. There’s a bottle after it sparkles. And one that pours shorthand.

Eat this. It tastes like words.

Fighting is explicit. It gets over a bomb and explodes into meaning like a cocoon of fire. The excerpts prove the reflections are this tall and no murmur can surround them without light or torsion, which is voluntary, like incompetence or wool. A bulb there is that likes a pickle. You can put this sentence by the flower and it will dilate into magnetism. Or, if the night is haikus, you can climb into one another and create a convocation of squirrels operated by needle. Everything that is daily will one day turn nevermore and bubble in retrospection.

There’s a tease in the furniture that causes violence with the hands. Subjectivity mimics itself in sleep. These are called dreams that get you out of yourself to rule an empire of wood. And then a secret breaks its feathers on a brain.

I think I like a sandstone piano that makes me mink. A push-up lies in wait on the floor. I pick it up and push it hard out west to California. Our abandonment is heaving forward on its knobs. The prairie gives this indigo. It lapses my tryout. It makes my implications leap into eggs. They get hatched as turntables.

The formula was puzzling until we discovered its echoes. Death is spicy because sidewalks. The brushwork gets fatter when it loads up on viability. Instincts walk among us like stiff cloth. A cram scrams. And a camera equals opium.

Time is a mask that space projects in flickers of gulp.

My jacket has a glaze. I think it’s morning walking on a shovel. The nouns all gather in brick. It stirs me to the bone. My eyelids grow tops. Yesterday I had a brush with reality. It left me feeling spontaneous. Every word is here to perform its bubbles. My knees just had to churn to the music of it, the juice of it, the bells and ladders of it. And so I accepted the elevation as an example of nature. The rocks held on to their silence. The sky meandered among its clouds. I could smell the tinsel of their noise. Nothing exists that doesn’t inflate with color. Even the knife has a voice.