Return To Xanadu

I think words are bones. All my power resides in the stars. This is the century of celery. Belly of Laughs must go into the jelly fish because those spheres are blue and there’s not a mint so much as a drop of blood. These are the feathers of a pharmaceutical thesis. Thus begins my emission. I have a commission by omission. Time convulses with daybreak, a collision of words creating papyrus and prayers, a prompt arrival from the angel of again and again. I’ve tested a door more than once by opening it. If there’s a goldfinch in my glockenspiel I can’t say why. But I can say the Greek Ships sailing this way navigate in a cave bursting with light. This was once the glory of the movie theater. It was a wooden bank with wooden money I once saw fly over Belgium like a plump whisper. Go ahead. Shine a light into the cave. I know you want to. The walls are covered with animals. They’re astonishing, like the horses in Corot. There’s a new curl to the universe and a puzzle made of murder. As you can see, I live in a house of dribble. It’s all cause and effect around here, axiomatic as a new jackknife. I still have something to say about society. I’ve lived through much of its history. I’d say more but my train is coming. Just remember. Grief is a galaxy of tears. I can smell Chicago. Half of me widens and half of me narrows. Reminds me of a sepia photograph of my grandparents. Or that time I saw peacocks in the parking lot near Stonehenge. I’m always on the qui vive for a gem or two. Sometimes I enlist in armies. I can’t do without raw umber. I know that. But here’s the deal. I need a chain of harmonies to dangle from my neck. It gives me protection. I’m superstitious about thunder. I feel incidental around orange. Properly speaking, improperly speaking is still a form of speaking. And this is a century of war. I’m hindered in my ability to fondle a sound. So please. If you could just move a tad to the side I’ll get up and get going. I can read the crash by the variety of parts strewn about. And you call this a language? I guess you have to call it something. There are only so many ways you can talk to an orchid. Me is in relation to we. It’s all very much like a Bob Dylan song. Rain on a junkyard engine. And the tomatoes are ripe. Think of the metamorphism of rock. It’s quiet as a dead democracy. I agree the moon is a broken comedy. Sad like a pouch of hammers. Splintered like the ideas in a library. And a lack of control. It’s a recipe for stars. My ribs display this hunger. My dream of mosquitoes confirms it. I have a refractory attitude toward linen. When it’s exhumed after many centuries it will appear as lignite. But I believe in roots. The forge has rippled my shirt with smells of music. Heavy metal. Though not entirely. Some of it’s light as a collar stud. Or a pygmy marmoset. I’ve got a gift for you. There’s no better way to propel a sentence than by flying. There’s a new vein in the fork. Shoes include tongues you know. This is my fourteenth day walking erect on the ceiling, my head upside down, all the details of my life unraveling around me. That’s a wheel over there, the blue one. The one rolling toward Xanadu.