Once When I Was Standing Next To A Potato Chip

Once when I was standing next to a potato chip, I rocked a puff of thought back in forth in a cradle of introspective glass. Nobody seemed to notice. It's like that sometimes when you get to thinking about things. You suddenly feel removed from the chatter of society. People seem to sense that. You’ve gone inside. You’re no longer there. Unless somebody rings the doorbell. I can't even remember what I was thinking. I'm going to guess it had something to do with the nerve it takes to describe the color red to a blind extraterrestrial. Another time I chiseled a spirit out of the air and wrestled it onto a sheet of paper. Words are often attracted to wine. But in this case two hundred penguins battled a rogue participle. This caused an almanac to happen. A man in a velvet robe told me how Chicago worked. Ezra Pound wrote it under some windows. There were implications attached to this, including parables and paddles. So we all went home by canoe. That’s when I discovered my sexual identity was chewable, and could relieve heartburn. They called it rottenness, foulness, sloughing of the sore. But I’m fine now. I’ll make you so proud of me. I’ll use magic. I’ll use surgery and perseverance. Gowns and sounds and vowels. The concentric noun is neither abstract nor deciduous. But it is cylindrical and epigrammatic. This is the heaven I fall through trying to get there. I assembled it with a poignant seamlessness. I always say that if you need to get something down, you’d better use a verb; nouns just sit around being things. I adapt to things by wondering about them. And then I thrust myself forward like a texture. I get a little religious around these things. For example, I have to sing the “Star Spangled Banner” in order to induce the flow of urine. Stars heal nothing. But they put on a good show. It is curious. The distances are too large to be measured with a conversation. The fact of it is impenetrable. You have to knock your head against it. Anyone who has looked deeply into the universe walks away charged with the voltage of location. Do you know where you are right now? You’re in a body of writing putting your life together with words and twine. You’re like an angel too good to be true. More than anyone in all of Venice. It’s all about the music. The mirrors, the indignations, the fire escapes. The day you find out what's going on inside yourself is the day silk will feel like intent. But you’ll go around in burlap, shaking hands with eyes.