Start The Sugar

Ooze keeps Thursday to itself. This is a problem. I have a mound to build, treasures of Anglo-Saxon anxiety to bury in repose. Shivering swarms of frankness flame from my embalming machine. I preserve carrot clouds in the right pocket of my vegetable pants. Admonition demonstrates lungs. Therefore, the tiger walks through the forest, but the power to stew remains plugged into my martini.

What is logic? I will tell you: it happens during the season of carpenters, when they have their visions, and pound nails into the air. Great cathedrals are built from this strength. Cathedrals of air. Vertiginous. Buoyant with faith. And tax exemption. Dumplings ripple through their own reality under a gravy of backwater shade. It’s expensive to step into ourselves, and easier to slip away, so what we do is leave our ashes behind and move forward drinking panaceas from old canteens. The forest is both spongy and flannel. Better to pet the scorpion than herald the dirt.

I don’t really like those big bloated heavy metal songs. But I do like Gothic chocolate. I like the vertebral breath of sumptuous beings and the chins of beautiful conversations. I have furnished this sentence with words. They will seek the meaning I’m trying to capture while I drink my coffee with a jeweled fork and wonder why it takes so long to arrive at transcendence, a little town to the south of wishbone.

I’ve been thinking about dead people a lot lately. Not sure why. Probably because so many people have died lately. Where’d they go? The eternal question. With an eternal answer. Whatever that answer happens to be. I like sugar and silence. Will there be sugar and silence in oblivion? There will be silence. I’m not so sure about sugar. Sugar is never sure. There is no sureness in sugar. Sugar is sugar and salt is salt. There is certainty in pepper but there is neither quartz or calcite in calculus. What do ghosts eat? Ghosts eat ectoplasmic hamburgers. Next to the ghosts of the quadrupeds who provided the meat for the hamburger. But were unwilling participants. And so are now ghosts on the prairie of heaven. Forever. Chewing & ruminating.

Twist a snowman stick. It will correct you. It will quench you. It will cheer you. It will unzip you, your lush suck shaking with ecstasy. Dear World Beauty: you have such fine evening teeth. I offer you this granulated ear screen I found at Home Depot in the fantasy aisle. It protects you from illocutionary faux pas.

I slide through glory looking for the balm of grammar, the hungry mixed kind, submersible and sumac. Start the sugar. I want to rummage a think until it talks like thought. There’s a hot gallant wax for molding such things, the contour of thought, which is shapeless as it is residual, going places I can’t go, saying things I can’t say, filling the air with jewelry, jazz and illumination. Bramble on the borders. Sopranos in the halls. Candles in the corners. Shadows on the walls.