I Slap The Air

I slap the air for the love of Mike who’s Mike I don’t know I just live here. He who stands drenched in corruption must also be susceptible to certain types of medication. Me, I’m out on the range. All I care about is geology. Could you hand me that rock? The next sound you hear will be one of abandon. This is how a poem begins. It corresponds to the ocean. And then gets on my glasses. I feel like a rudder in a stew of cinnamon and freeze-dried ideas. This is that greeting whose content baffles the embrace of its prose. A song, on the other hand, begins with a breath. And is carried by melody to a place of healing. For the tongue is a mighty organ. I like to stand in the sunlight and throw myself into it. And when I’m shattering world records I like to talk to the grass. Each blade has something to say on Hustle-Bustle Avenue. I went outside with a big voice and came back with a bank. We think we are forests. But we are sleeves. I’m in expectation of a stick to help fulfill the goal of this costume. One day I will venerate a horse and wear a hat of mice riding bicycles. But this is not about thrashing around in bed. This is about a coup d’état that happened one day on my coffee table. And if you’re out on the highway keep an eye out for black ice. The fog does nothing to help. Not even symbolically. I feel many tired feelings leaning against my rib. And here I am scraping a soup ladle in Sligo. It’s at the heart of my operation. As you can see, I’m wearing a white tie over a black shirt. It would take years to sleep enough to forget this world. I’ve got sleet and ice in my eyebrows. Believe me. I’m not the sort of person who twinkles. I’m the guy who broods alone in a booth with a pint of Guinness in front of him. You, me, all of us, our brains are stuck to a big idea. I once saw a tulip emerge from an opened mouth and lie down on a sheet of sobbing tears of horticulture. All hands on deck. A philosophy just arrived. Defeat is sometimes sweet. But what can be sweeter than serapes and bells? The needles of stern catharsis all ask the same question: what is greed exactly? Then they curl into answers. And a mule named Bill. Here we are. At last. Sewing the air together with words. But are you required to jerk forward like that? We have all stopped at one time or another to measure a gargoyle fart. The next time I see you I will be king. But king of what? Our play is over. The curtain is coming down. You should tell your story to someone backstage. My radio has magical dials. New cars are overly complex, but the lips can still hammer on a sentence now and then and even though the nails are bent and crooked we have ears like gearshifts and nets for catching drugstores. I’m as awed as I am surprised. My leg stiffens just thinking about it. How sadness has killed the novelty of itself but remains an important source of fire. Nobody ever decides to be inspired they just are. I’m resigned to the facts of life. Think of me as a single fish in a bowl of house with a junkyard out back and a calliope in my mouth. I’ve got an umbrella for the underworld and a pearly contraption for milking the sky. Go ahead. Walk in and sit down. The barley is for Charlie and the Harley is for Snarly. Have a chip. Our riots are about to begin.