Here In The Country Of The Prose Poem

A serious word would like to be heard. We can put it on the loudspeaker and let the phonemes surprise us with its nervous elegance, as if Hindemith’s Kammermusik were followed by Presley’s Little Sister. Such moral interpretations of phenomena are seen as elongated cylinders around here, clanking & gubernatorial. They only work when it rains and the willows sway in the sweet Louisiana breeze. Even if the house rocks and the light is ominously muted and the door keeps slamming. I will swirl this string if necessary. Show me a shoe and I’ll show you a foot. Let’s luxuriate in mint and take care of our philosophers and friends. The pillow should appear striated, that is, alternating dark and light bands of hypnogogic perspicacity. Pleasure is worth its pursuit. Pumpernickel impels the enlargement of perception. It does this by the martyrdom of bread, which is a well-known fact here in the country of the prose poem where the physics is silly and the dough must suffer for the sake of truth. I wrote a sentence across the Uzbekistan of a sheet of paper until it arrived in an upper Mongolia of totally spaced-out intuitive feelings, each one labeled by its atomic number and specific gravity. I know what you’re thinking. And yes, the answer is yes, I like a good hoe. But I put more emphasis on the rake. A bad rake is like a broken knot on a tinfoil tie. It just lies there twinkling in the mist, a phantom morality oozing sausage. Are we even capable of defending ourselves? Against what? Illiteracy? How? I scour the piano for its music. It seems to be attached to the keys. We can do it. We’ll be safe here. This space. Expansive as a band of light thrown across the floor of the garage. Grease the axles. The need for velocity spoils all my better instincts. I walk into hunger with the aid of some embryonic muscle cells and find a magnolia floating in the fine neutrality of my consciousness. It makes you headstrong, this medallion. Ignite the synthesis. It’s time for our headlights to pierce the night. I know a good hotel with a bone black radiator and a carpet of objections and red rags. I’ve got a warrant to search your philosophy. Hand it over. Before it stupefies the innocent and hangs in the kitchen like a cloud of angry steam. All it takes is a single nervous stimulus to make a sibilant emote the mysteries of Being. I’m trying to obtain power by embarking on a bookstore. I like to struggle with the impossible. I like a good story accompanied with a lovely indigo prayer. There are worse consequences than a little impatience in the absence of a continued stimulation. That’s what drugs and language are for. Fly us into another dimension where mutation is a constant rustle and sleep is a place to hang my dreams. For example, the digestive tract can organize its labor if there’s a need to digest the truth. The essence of life is blood vessels and ducts. The art of conversation is precisely what I need to expand my options as an organism as I splash around in the bathtub feeling the splendor of interrelation. Not much has changed over the years except my feelings about external reality. I get visceral that a table is such a resolute object. Can I rub your leg? It feels opulent as a river. My entire sense of anatomy is hinged to the Mississippi. It echoes the savor of tomatoes, said the Knight of the Most Sorrowful of Countenances.