Opal

Here’s the armchair I crammed with indolence. I did this in a moment of scratching. I can feel the pull of gravy whenever I’m feeling crustacean. I’m anchored, as always, in the empire of string. There are folds of memory I collect by acting resonant, and drop it all in a bucket I remember from a long time ago in a dream. This is a cause of Thursday. It’s moody to obtrude but I need to do this to overcome the dots that make me yodel when I’m feeling the fingers of interrelation in my pants. This is that very elemental grid that I need to rivet to words and make my work light up. Language happens when the lilacs bloom in the doorway and the speed of it thuds into neon. Logic is caustic. Avoid filibusters. The sensations we feel are often the very sensations we use to stimulate ourselves into miscellany. For it is there that the words become omnivorous and eat their way into meaning, which is full of protein, and process and daydream. I want this energy to turn into feathers. I will flutter all I know until it gets to be pleasing. I’ve got an atmosphere in my head. Do you? I think it’s normal to racket around like a quart of incantation. I can just about grasp the meaning of life as I merge into the next lane when I’m voyaging around on paper. Here’s what I do: I grease parables. I want them to move into viscera smoothly and break apart our assumptions of reality. My hand is trying hard to get these words to come out of hiding and do what words do best when they’re thistles or terse. They say water does it by acorns. It bends around our walking by the stream and culminates in banks overhung by willow. This is now new as nails. The trudge of my injuries slosh around in kerosene, lighting the night until it leans into us like a trapeze. I thought of cloth and flowed through my body, minding it like a hunch, and discovering transfiguration. The Corot is what bone murmurs. The immediate properties of consciousness are combed by yelling, and this makes everything opal.