Let's Get Spectral

I don’t oppose the ooze of a rawhide collar stud, nor do I spurn the flutter of a proposal if it drops to the floor in a sudden apoplexy of incompatible subjectivity. I see a stirring beam amid the gossip that the algebra of the socially maladroit expands into a canoe. Therefore, it behooves me to redeem the time with a little transcendence. Let’s get spectral. I’ll hymn an itch we can texture. If you play with experience an absence with meat on its bones will grab you and burn you. Afterwards, an eager reflection will climb on your back during your metamorphosis and make you circumspect. I’ll fire up the forge and make a padlock. The fly the dissolve the alpaca. Everything I shape shouts tulip. Tumult is a cartoon your string has caused to thrive. I think you have a beautiful throat. You look good with a wild skull and a clean curl.

Beauty slides its sugar into the unknown excursion some consider worth a few candles and a little money. Too many thorns in the kitchen will spoil the poultry. Distance is such a mournful thing. Few consider it comprehensible. Last night a memory blew through my mind and left a kettle on the ceiling. There’s a reason for everything. Except regret. No enigma is hollow. The very effort to solve it gives it a meaning and an interior celebrity. François Hardy or Charles Bronson. An unresolved problem will swell into a mailbox and fill with letters from all thirteen colonies of my tablecloth. The man with a mended eye is the one to see what’s wrong and so misunderstood about understanding. And I stood there blinking at the brightness of the foundry.

I’m feeling bullish and so hum a yellow song. It was written by a sewer rat in Paris who knew Victor Hugo personally. It’s a beautiful song, and yellow as the advocacy at the core of the sun. Humming helps me understand the parsley family. No foam or agitation of the sea has as much sheer aggression as the carrot. Can you smell it? There’s a bear in the oyster farm. I love ovals. And cubes and cones and cylinders. Cylinders especially. These are some of the shapes I’ve learned while making guitars for the Rolling Stones. I study closely how women apply lipstick with careful loving strokes, and then imitate it when I’m playing hockey. I can’t, for the life of me, understand how anyone could put their trust in a government. Life is an equation served cold. It takes more than calipers to anatomize its features. The laws are created to protect money. I didn’t discover ethics until I discovered flight. I joined the Chippewa of the Turtle Mountains and kneeled in the mud of the Missouri getting a drink. That’s what I mean by fulfillment.

There are songs I can listen to repeatedly without getting tired of them. “The Song of the Muddy Banana in the Dirty Bandana” performed by Steady State Slim and the Merry Variables is one. It helps me achieve the somnolence of stone, and the celestial wisdom of elephants in the forests of Ghana. I remember my nervousness around guns. We pay a heavy price for subtlety. Each word is a nail. Each kitchen drawer a monad. The sound it makes when I open it is a brightness felicitous as a glowworm. I call it “The Song of the Siren Knives.” Though it’s mostly about forks, with an epilogue of spoons. Sometimes I can hear the fruit rotting on the ground and it makes me want to dance a bunch of words into a paragraph where there’s a chance to be reborn as a temperament or a corkscrew. It ends with a mournful cream, and a referendum of intimacy.