For Fur

I’m not against generating peculiarities. I do it all the time. Here’s the deal: a green light walks into a mind and sits down and knits a reason to go forward with one’s life. I intuit the club I use to inherit urination. And do so in the blue night of jute and potato. I’m wild about fur. Oblivion handsprings through my bones causing shadows and inevitability. We take our time by banging the airplane against the air until the apparitions settle at last on the totem. Our lingering sequesters the haste of plywood in the quiet of evening. Our wandering burns under the summons of the elect. We resist the authority of lace and convulse by pronoun. Our ties mark the presence of upheaval and widen to marquee our kicks. We find the appropriate amount of deformation below among the protoplasm and whippoorwills. It takes eighteen pounds of air to say blood. And forty-two pounds of propulsion to trudge toward the tower. My Picasso is framed in linen, and this makes for an art to be rubbed on the ribs until the burden of existence reveals its inner charms. There’s a lot of noise right now in the engine room. Can I say anything harshly revealing if I plug it into the wall? Of course. But it will gulp the play and leave Hamlet standing there like a frying pan weeping hot tears of bacon grease. I dream of a space floating toward the phantoms of the past and find all the ribbon I need in the drawer of a desk shoved far to the back where the shadows cluster and thicken into articulation. These are the contusions we must glue to the renegades of the northern prairie. We’re never ourselves until we open up to what isn’t us. We all had to endure the ordeal of birth. Some still carry the marks of a preternatural agility. Others sit in a corner stringing words together. Adaptability is one thing, improvisation another. Those who choose not to adapt choose to improvise. And here is where we find the steam to continue. Go. Shake hands with a demon. The plane doesn’t have a pilot. But it does have fur.