A Tale Of Infinite Variables

The sky sparkles with beatitude. A section of gauze brushes my consciousness. I can see through everything, but it’s all quite vague. This is a journey that progresses by sips and swigs and mimics the bursting of long suppressed emotions, each one of which holds up an insult with monumental aplomb. I need to do something totemic and intravenous. I tremble to weigh a vending machine. It’s something I’ve wanted to do since birth. I look to the sky for support and wisdom. Distant rock trinkets hang from an asteroid belt. Swoon hammers find a parable. I was never so glad as when I discovered tiptoe. Furrows in the field make pillows of the earth and fill my genitals with a storm of relevance. I think I've come as far as I can go without overflowing with huge overcoats. I crave to do something on the grass. Mud sucks the soul of the island until it becomes big and maternal like a tabloid. Everything on this planet is so weird all the time. Pain visits my knee in the form of a patellofemoral pain syndrome (everything is a syndrome here, or a syndicate or a synthetic), and smashed icicles make trails of mimosa silver. It must be obvious that to see something growl its way into palpable form can be a traumatic experience. This is why we use language. It speeds up the process and minimizes the level of pain. I can smell the earth sweat when tar is applied to a highway or a book struggles with its own perplexities. I sometimes forget that snow is the sugar of the gods. Close your eyes. Look deep in your mind. Ideas sparkle when they revolve like decadent aristocrats at a masked ball. This is a function of infinite variables. The stone is nothing until it creates a quotient. A stick divided by a shadow equals a moment in time. But when we do it, we are always amazed at how kids respond, especially those living deep in the bayou, where all the integers are divisible by moonlight. I once had a vision of the body as a coconut palm making out with the wind. I took an old dagger and stabbed the darkness. Night collapsed and spread its blood like starlight over the waves. I do these things not out of spite, but because I must, & because all my remaining needs require vivid descriptions to keep going, acts of desperation disguised as prose, otherwise what’s the point? I was mad to leave Norway. But the oysters here are delicious, & taste like madrigals of meat.