Dear Loafers And Cobweb-Spinners

Dear loafers and cobweb-spinners of the spirit, the great bulk of the muscles of the body become the leading vehicles of visual art, as can be seen when Hulk Hogan enters the ring, or did so some years ago, when we were all rushing to get into heaven before they closed the door, and Lucinda Williams sang like a wood thrush in the ancient of times. Forgive me if my strumming swarms with binoculars. The science exhibits are notoriously tricky, especially the ones made with muscle and gold. We can make this appear to be a possibility, but it will require your complete cooperation. These elevations are liberating. But be prudent. Let’s achieve that summit while painting holds the sun in its oily embrace. Structurally, a paragraph can seem a little underdeveloped if it doesn’t include a foothill and a few people sitting in a parlor talking and laughing as something deep within the fiber of the moment starts pounding like a heart and our hopes turn into maybes & the spinning wires of the cuckoo in the cuckoo clock startle us with its torchlike beak & costume jewelry. Let us banish all mirrors until the fractions are made whole and the bicycle shop jingles like maple syrup on a blackberry day. I feel the Technicolor moss of your sweet breath fulfill the needs of a sentence and make its dilations possible. Just keep the question marks out of here until someone produces an actual question. Here’s one: what is the secret of the harmonica? Answer: my other car is a cimbalom. You must place yourself between the words in order to understand the silence behind them, and the movements of the body, which enjoy a large space, and assume a laudable truthfulness by changing position and jiggling merrily in the locker room. If you look closely, you can see the pineapple grapple with itself. The anguish of creation shouts a juicy passion as a shillelagh bounces off of the freshly varnished painting reposing on the easel of a fiendish gargoyle named Peckerhead Wilson. This is a drama that repeats itself endlessly in the generalities surrounding a fresh quandary. Some of my favorite doctrines are ducks. There are clouds in this wood. Paganini once played it. I gave it the full complement of my attention only to blow up later as I walked down the street. I felt my being mingle in the air as pieces of Iowa jangled in my pocket and nothingness fulminated in the corn. I will be the individual cells of myself I thought. The very hypothesis is prodigal. And I like that.