The Dialectics Of Hay

My thesaurus horseshoe wants the savor of bronze. It is this mat that puts dimes to fantastic homogenization.  It’s not rocket science, no, but it is gobbled as dairy. The dampened mocha poses on the ledge. Love results from electrolytes. Though it has often been said that the thermometer of the iconoclast registers twelve different forms of heat and cold, depending on the vagaries of the chin, the lines of the hills, and the inquiries at the church. There’s a werewolf standing on my shoe. It’s a lucky thing I’m not wearing it. When light travels through a prism, it splits into seven wavelengths of color, one of which is hydrogen, one of which is pencils, one of which is jeers from a jeep, another of which is socialism, another of which is misrule, another of which is guano, and the seventh is a werewolf standing on a shoe. These are the very colors of crates, the pharynx of a grocery store manager yielding flares of noontime pine. And I thought I was menstruating! I know what it’s like in the cattails. The nexus of meanings turns magenta in the light of the crucible moon. The ovulation does its hydroplaning across the dish of our prayers. The disbursement has its fanlights, but the bank has its ledgers, and the heartbeat of the sentence causes the musk ox to turn north toward the northern lights and the opals of permafrost coming undone beneath the mosses & lichens. There’s nothing occult about a pickerel. I will further this patronage by the profusion of salsa amid the ticking of exemption. There are bowls in the cupboard. Think of them as words to put things in. Goggles & dice. Epicures and the politics of the shrug. The mermaid speaks Russian, which makes it all semantic, highlighting the luster of the chandeliers and the tinkling of bells in the distance. The dialectics of hay maintain the looms of the mesmerized. Let me confide my knob to your estuary. I think it’s time to come clean. The quiet is plush as a ransom slipped under a door at midnight. I admit the gulls are outcasts. But the dextrose glows like digits in a clock radio. And it’s beautiful. More beautiful than the door to fairyland, or that onion in your hand, which is gesturing to the gloom with its many layers of crinkly femininity. I didn’t see you come in. Or maybe you’ve been there the entire time, a pair of eyes creating these words as you read them, like we all do when we’re alone with a book. I hope the truck starts in the morning. It’s so cold here. The dials are infrared and a soft blue gargoyle rides a peacock across the octave of a savage allegory. No matter. We can connect the gerunds later, when the ideas pirouette on the ceiling. Physique is invaluable, is it not, especially when you need it to get something across, a new haircut, tie clasp or religious feeling.