The Song In The Head

I can trigger a quintessential absence if I there’s enough propane available to weld a hindsight to a premonition. I could also use a paper pillow and a parkway nonchalance. There must be something I can do. I have motorcycles in my breath. Achievement hangs about me like a dead crow. I could do almost anything that might require a little acting on the side. And with a little more chutzpah, I could disassemble a theological pain. But for that I would need a golden magnet and the liquid scarf of a brooding scorpion. The thumb is pungent when the sublime is yawning. The garage is the right place for a midnight tryst. But if the vertigo is emphatic enough to sprawl out in shadows, there must also be long postulations to mitigate against the ensuing ambiguity. Or encourage it. I’m not trying to be vague or self-indulgent. Time results from pulling things into existence, then sewing them into embellishments of meaning. The metaphors parade through town stimulating romance. It’s all I can do to hold back the skin of indication.

Oh sure, the Lady Gaga joker movie might turn out to be the very thing we need to turn things around. Cryptocurrency contains enough bold and beautiful spoilers to make any wedding a pleasant distraction from a hair loss lawsuit. But you might want to stop playing with your balls, however discreetly. When John Donne was ordained in 1615 at the age of forty-three, his earlier tendencies were not forgotten. There is nothing more metaphysical than a Cadillac. It has to do with the vapors of dawn and the beauty of robbing an East Texas bank. I’ll let this totem stand. The Corot is for coherence. The moon is too big to garden. But it’s a good way to spend the afternoon. You might think I’m a cowboy or something, but I’m not. I’m only the residue of a hypothetical willingness to climb into the haggard voice of a rocking chair & chop the daylight into chunks of folklore. Whatever you’ve done in the past, you can leave it here. I’ll figure out something to do with it. Meanwhile, check out Edith Sitwell. She wrote a great book about Bath.  

Poets enchant the world. That’s their job. It’s what they do. Because reality doesn’t dry up with platitudes. Au contraire. You know that feeling that comes from the rhythms of Bo Diddley? It’s like that. Meet the metaphors. The band is good tonight. Even Keats got up to dance. Life is a satori of rags & chemistry. But don’t let that fool you. Everything I’ve said so far is teeming with éclairs. Adjusting to life in the 21^st century requires a lot of pastry. Good pastry. Italian bomboloni, Peruvian picarones, Austrian krapfen. The mind is separate from the world. Otherwise, why would I press my stethoscope against the night? It’s adorably plump, and I can hear its pulsars throbbing like a heartbeat. Does age really matter? I wash my face with the tears of the moon. But my nails are done by sea lions. And rocks. So what do you say? Let’s sail into the mystic with dolphins at our side and diphthongs hanging from our lips. Nothing smells worse than a geothermal burp. Do that. Jiggle your gardenias. Beat time. Do handstands in Kenya. The enthusiasm alone will make a man of you. Women get it. It should be a worldwide thing. Art that drags itself across the floor like hot red buckets of Martian soup. And explodes into paradise.