AWOL

I relish the hectic jabber of bubbles. They nourish my dereliction. We used to eat oysters until the shadow of an infant cubism absorbed our attention. We all felt deeply rooted. We were open to all sorts of manifestation, infestation, protestation. There was snow behind the whisper and an epilogue in the wings awaiting the Baudelaire of a meandering mouth. Destiny meanders, doesn’t it? Right when you expect to assume some power along comes a pretext and spoils everything. My personality wears me out. The circumference of a dream depends on the diameter of the filter. The concertina is botched, but the orchestra may be saved by your locomotive Bach. I’ve tried being more modern but I get fouled up in maroon. The parabola of the spoon is enhanced by a rattan chair in the rain. Can you smell it? Rattan in the rain. It’s the energy of dolphins. Exhilarating. Push audacity. Monotony triggers my elderberry. My breakfast pin is this moose I see in potential, like a charming tomboy or madrigal. Everything has a corresponding sister in the embodiment of our calling. Our own personal song. Which is the song of everything. Don’t mind my nose. My nose is upset with the truffles. My ravenous fuel hungers for velocity. I feed on distance. I feed on nearness. I’m serious as a mortgage. There are curves in space that would nullify all bombs, all weaponry, all war. It’s called void. It’s called AWOL. We have plucked a nail from the heart and called it fiction. I found it wedged in a tree and freed it with a tongue and a story. If the leaves initiate the asphalt they must be answerable to crinkling. The cubes are yawning. We are but the naked undercurrents of ourselves. And rapture in waterfalls.